Contented Wi' Little I: The Selkirk Grace
by Ancalime Erendis
Summary: NOW COMPLETE! AU version of fifth year. The Order of the Phoenix has some odd additions, including Snape and an unlikely other as spies, and one of the greatest pranksters in Hogwarts history. Rating for violence and gore.
1. Meli

Contented Wi' Little, Part I: The Selkirk Grace by Ancalimë Erendis

**The Disclaimers****:  
**Before you launch into the reading of this story, it may be necessary for you to understand a few things from the outset. Whether or not it makes the reading more enjoyable is up to you; it may, however, help to create a context for your reaction to what you read, whether you enjoy it or not.

I began writing this story in January 2002, which is to say, a year and a half before _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_ hit the stores. Everything in this story that was not written by 21 June 2003 was already plotted out; therefore, except for some terminology that may have been slipped in after my reading of that book, nothing you are about to read was influenced in the least by it. There are some parallels, but I assure you, they are nothing more than creepy coincidence, from Ron being Gryffindor's Keeper to the fifth year DADA teacher being a female. Strange, but true.

This story is a collaboration with the writer of another story (who uses the charming—and apt—name of Snarky Sneak). That collaboration took place _after_ each of us had created our characters. Thus, the similarity of physical descriptions for Zarekael and Meli is entirely coincidental, but highly amusing to Snarky and me.

The opinions expressed by the characters in this story are not necessarily those of the author. I find myself disagreeing with all of them regularly; feel free to do the same.

I am well aware of the timeline set up by J.K. Rowling that places Harry's birth in the year 1980. I am likewise aware that this means that Meli and Zarekael are listening to P.O.D., Linkin Park, and System of a Down in 1995-96. My simple explanation? Time does not matter; this isn't actually a historical record. I know that may shock someone somewhere, but oh, well.

**Giving Credit Where Credit Is Due****:  
**While I would just _love_ to take credit for all of the really cool stuff quoted in this story, almost none of it, alas, was originally written or said by me. All poems, unless otherwise credited in the narrative, were written by Robert Burns. The lyrics to "Here I Am Amongst You" were written by Colm Sands, and the version I know, anyway, was performed by Seamus Kennedy. And as for characters and terms, obviously if you recognize them from canon, they're the property of J.K. Rowling. Oh, yeah—and Zarekael is the intellectual property of Snarky Sneak.

**The Selkirk Grace**** by Robert Burns**  
Some hae meat and canna eat,  
And some wad eat that want it,  
But we hae meat and we can eat,  
And sae the Lord be thankit.

**  
Prologue  
****PRESENT: 24 JUNE 1995  
****  
**It was the last night of the Triwizard Tournament at Hogwarts, and the four champions were preparing to enter the maze. Within three hours, Cedric Diggory would lay dead and Lord Voldemort would return.

Jeanne Mason had no clue about any of that. She was a Muggle, and if anyone used the word "magic" around her, she could either assign or write a pretty little essay on the subject, but she had no serious notion of such a thing actually existing. She wasn't one to repress another's imaginative fancies, but she herself didn't really indulge in them.

Her concern at the moment was as practical and kindhearted as anything else about her, and to her credit, she didn't mean any harm by it; she certainly couldn't have foreseen the events of the evening as they eventually unfolded. That didn't stop her, in the days afterward, from irrationally blaming herself for the whole thing.

Jeanne taught at a primary school in Little Whinging, Surrey, and, while there were the usual disagreements, most of the teachers got on fairly well. The one, glaring exception was the young woman who taught across the hall from Jeanne. She had taught in the school for five years, and her students emerged as shining examples of what a properly administered sound English education could accomplish. She taught well, and she had always maintained classroom discipline with a skilled ease that most teachers picked up over ten or more years of hard experience. There was nothing to prevent her from having friends among her fellow teachers—she seemed to have a pleasant enough personality—except that she made it abundantly clear that she had no desire to befriend anyone. She remained solitary, for no readily apparent reason.

Coaxing and friendly smiles hadn't worked so far, so when several other teachers decided to go out for drinks, Jeanne made up her mind to force the issue and bring the antisocial teacher along, by hook or by crook.

Jeanne found her at her desk, carefully alphabetizing student essays by the writer's surname before recording their scores in her grade book.

"Are you busy tonight?" Jeanne asked without preamble.

The other arched an eyebrow. "Probably. I need to finish reading _The Lays of Beleriand_, and once done with that, I have an emergency cobweb count, followed by a thorough check of my Oxford English Dictionary to make sure that all of the entries are still in alphabetical order. Doxies, you know." She nodded sagely. "I can probably pencil you in for a five minute conversation, but only if it's academic in nature."

_Pretty quick on your feet, aren't you__, then,_ Jeanne thought, impressed but not put off. "I was hoping you could pencil in an hour or so at the pub, actually. There's a group of us going out, and—"

"I was under the impression that I'm antisocial," the other interrupted dryly. "I highly doubt you'd _want_ me along."

Jeanne smiled wryly. "Oh, go on. We've worked together for five years, and I hardly know you. I don't ask you to be my best friend—just to let me buy you a pint."

The other's eyebrows were nearly to her widow's peak. "And why would you want to buy me a pint? As you say, you hardly know me."

Jeanne crossed her arms. "In celebration for having survived five years teaching here. The first of which included that miserable thug Dursley," she added with an involuntary shudder.

"I liked that year." The other teacher slowly grinned. "Classroom discipline has never been so fun." She held the grin for a moment then let it fade. "All right, Jeanne, I'll let you buy me a pint. But this is a one-shot deal; I really _don't _socialize, nor do I have any wish to start now."

"I understand."

She didn't, though, and both of them knew it.

ooo

Their group assembled at the pub just under an hour later. While no one vocalized surprise or annoyance at the antisocial teacher's presence, Jeanne could tell she'd have some explaining to do later; it was clear that the addition to their party wasn't appreciated.

The other woman did pretty well for herself, though, winding her way through the small talk and throwing out some idle chit-chat of her own. The mood eased, and no one seemed to notice then that she soon dropped out of the conversation entirely. Jeanne reflected that it was the best possible arrangement: the one could be silent, and the others couldn't reasonably resent her for it.

The conversation soon turned from work to other things, getting around eventually to where various teachers thought former pupils might be now. That topic drew in even the silent teacher.

"Ah, and then there's Potter," Jim drawled. "Remember him? Harry Potter, I think his name was."

"Dudley Dursley's cousin, wasn't he?" Allison put in.

"Mm." Jim swallowed a mouthful of stout. "Probably got himself killed by now."

"Or jailed," Don added sourly.

"No, actually, he hasn't."

All eyes turned to the once-silent teacher, whose own eyes had hardened along with her voice.

"Oh, no?" Don said.

"No." She twirled her half-empty bottle idly between her thumb and forefinger. "He's studying at my old secondary school now, so I hear of him from time to time. He's quite alive and well, and, though given to the normal amount of rule-breaking, I gather that he lives in line with the law."

Jeanne smiled and cleared her throat, hoping to draw off some of the stares. "So what's he doing now?"

The other smiled coolly. "He plays football for the dormitory team," she replied. "I also understand that he's participating in a skill tournament, along with competitors from other schools." The smile became a smirk. "I think you all underestimated him."

"But _you _didn't, of course," Don said sarcastically.

His sarcasm lost all of its heat when her cold gaze found him. "I never estimated him to begin with," she countered. "It's my firm belief that students should prove themselves worthy of whatever we eventually hear about them. Perhaps Potter could have turned out bad and ended up in the penal system—the potential was certainly there." She shrugged. "But the potential was also there for him to become something better, and guess which one he's lived up to after all?"

The tension returned, and this time she didn't try to relieve it; it clearly didn't bother her in the least as she finished her drink while the others attempted to re-start the conversation

Another half-hour passed, and nearly everyone had managed to forget about the antisocial teacher again…

Then, a world away, a shrouded figure named Avery threw himself at his master's feet.

The silent teacher's head jerked up, and Jeanne saw something like fear flicker in her eyes. She suddenly went into motion, pulling out her wallet and removing something.

Then the entire world dissolved into chaos.

Her silence shattered in a scream of total agony as she fell to the floor, writhing. Her eyes caught Jeanne's, and she flung up her left hand. Jeanne caught it, felt a piece of folded paper pressed against her palm, then felt the other's hand fly away, its movement controlled now entirely by excruciating pain. The young teacher rolled onto her side, curling into the fetal position and howling as spasms racked her body.

Allison was already on her mobile phone, summoning paramedics. Jeanne unfolded the paper and read the brief message:

_In case of emergency,  
contact Kamrin Fallows._

She pulled out her own mobile and dialed the number on the note.

"Hello." The voice that answered was crisp, her tones clipped and edged with a Scottish burr.

"Kamrin Fallows, please."

The voice at the other end swore very colorfully. "I'm Kamrin," she added, for Jeanne's benefit. "What's happened."

"Well, your number's listed as the emergency contact—"

"Is she having a seizure?" Kamrin demanded impatiently.

"Well, she's screaming."

"And writhing?"

"Well, yes—"

"Then she's having a bloody seizure!" Kamrin paused to recover some composure. "I assume someone's already called for an ambulance."

"Yes."

Kamrin swore again then said, "Then call me back when you know what hospital she's at."

"But—" Jeanne broke off; the other woman had rung off.

ooo

The initial seizure stopped long before the paramedics arrived, but it was only the first of a series. Each time she seized, it was worse, and the only relief was that she couldn't much noise anymore; her throat was raw, her voice hoarse, and she coughed up spots of blood in between screams.

Jeanne followed the ambulance to the hospital then called Kamrin Fallows again. This time Kamrin was less terse, but the conversation was no more informative than the previous one had been.

"I'll meet you at Emergency," Kamrin told her, then abruptly rang off again.

Worried as she was, Jeanne was a bit curious to meet the peculiar Kamrin Fallows. Her curiosity turned to amazement when she crossed from the car park to the hospital and found her already there.

"Jeanne Mason?"

Jeanne recognized the voice and looked up in surprise to find a slim woman with wavy brown hair and hard gray eyes.

"Yes."

"Kamrin Fallows." She extended a hand, which Jeanne uncertainly shook. "How many seizures did she have?"

"She was in the middle of her third when they put her in the ambulance."

Kamrin let loose a string of colorful anatomical impossibilities, and Jeanne felt the sudden need to go to the washroom and clean out her ears. There was a pause then Kamrin sighed. "You're probably wondering what this is about, aren't you."

"Well…" Jeanne bit her lip. "Yes."

Kamrin smiled from one corner of her mouth, but it was a bitter, tired smile. "It's a peculiar form of epilepsy. She hasn't had a seizure since we were in school together… fourteen years ago, it'll be now." She shook her head. "We knew it could come back at any time, but of course we hoped it wouldn't. It was bad before, but now it'll be worse."

Jeanne frowned. "How do you know that?"

Kamrin narrowed her eyes. "We all knew it," she didn't quite answer. "Thank you for notifying me. I'll take care of her." She paused, then added in a much darker tone, "She'll need a substitute teacher for one day, but she'll probably be back after that—whether she ought to or not."

ooo

"Kamrin" watched as the teacher left, then pulled out her mobile and dialed without looking at the key pad. The person she'd called answered on the first ring.

"Talk."

"It's Red," she said. "He's back. Skulk."

"Right. I'll spread the word."

"Don't call this number; I won't answer."

"Of course not. We're all yesterday's news."

"Keep it that way, bro."

He snorted. "Just _you_ stay out of the headlines, _Red_."

She rang off, then muttered something in Latin and dropped the phone in the nearest trash can. It disappeared in a puff of smoke before it reached the bottom. She then proceeded to the ladies' room, locked herself in a stall, and disappeared into thin air.

**Part I: Some Hae Meat and Canna Eat**

**Chapter 1: Meli  
****1 SEPTEMBER 1979, FIRST YEAR**

Meli, contrary to Mrs. Stafford's obvious belief, was not at all nervous about going away to Hogwarts. In fact, since receiving a wand which she considered a Dark omen, she was more resigned and apathetic than anything else, and she couldn't care less that she was entering a new world.

"Now, dear," Mrs. Stafford said, "I saw my sister do it every year. What you want to do is walk straight at the wall between 9 and 10."

A magical passage wall. She had seen one before in her grandfather's house—

There was a boy about her age, slim, with blond hair and light eyes, staring at them. His gaze was rather keener than she liked, and something in his posture made her nervous. She smoothed the newly-cut fringe that covered her suspicious widow's peak and intentionally looked away from him to hug Mrs. Stafford. "I'll see you at Christmas," she said quietly.

Mrs. Stafford smiled warmly at her. "Send us an owl to let us know how you are."

Meli nodded, but she couldn't bring herself to smile. "I will." She turned and passed through the wall without another word.

Someone else came through almost immediately after, and she turned, surprised, to find that it was the same boy she'd seen a moment before. He stood only two inches taller than her, but she felt as if he looked down at her from a much higher level.

"Muggle-born?" he asked without preamble.

"No," she replied, resisting the urge to sigh. As soon as the Hat Sorted her into Slytherin, she'd be unable to escape the blood-credential wars, and even though she could truthfully claim three-quarter blood, she wasn't in a hurry to get started on the whole stupid mess.

The distance between them seemed to shrink as he smiled and offered a hand. "Dirk Pierce." Something fell out of his pocket just then, and he grimaced as he stooped down to retrieve it. It was, Meli saw, a black Sharpie marker, which he stuffed back into his pocket, again offering his hand.

She looked at him with eyebrows raised, but shook his hand, which had gone cold. "Meli Stafford."

They stepped away from the wall now, just in time to get out of the way of two others. The first was a girl with long, wavy brown hair and sparkling gray eyes. She seemed to be in a hurry, pushing her cart in front of her as if it was a featherweight. The second was a boy, also with brown hair, who had somehow or other managed to dislodge his trunk and dump it from his cart to the platform.

"Oh, come _on_, Collum!" the girl hissed. Her exasperation seemed further emphasized by an accent that Meli thought might be either Scottish or Irish. The new girl stopped and whirled to face the other boy. "Clumsy old thing—you're sure to be a Hufflepuff!"

_Scottish_, Meli amended, hearing the girl's burr.

"Well, if _you'd_ slow down a bit, Crim," he fumed in the same accent, then resorted to nearly inaudible, but probably uncivil, muttering as he heaved his trunk back onto his cart.

The girl caught sight of Meli and Dirk, and flashed them a brilliant smile, touched by the barest trace of a smirk. "Lovely evening, isn't it?"

Meli furrowed her brow. "But it's morning."

"Prove it," the other ordered. "Show me the sun!"

"It's foggy out," Meli said. "I can't show you the sun."

The girl leaned in closely, a Puckish mischief in her eye. "Ex_act_ly!" She grinned, then held out her hand. "Crimson Fell, aspiring first year."

Meli shook this hand, too, and found it far warmer than Dirk's had been. "I'm Meli Stafford."

Crimson's gaze fell on Dirk. "And you?"

"Dirk Pierce." The Sharpie made good its escape once more, and, with a sigh, Dirk bent down to pick it up again. "Sorry about that," he apologized. "Mum's loaded me up with about a dozen of these to label all my stuff with when I get to school. She labeled it all already, but she's sure she missed most of it."

"Good to know our mam's not the only one going crazy over us," Crim said, running a sharp eye over him and probably coming to the same conclusion about his heritage that Meli had.

There was a muffled curse, followed by the sounds of a panicked owl and a wire cage slamming onto the platform, topped off by an awful stream of profanity from the other boy. Crimson looked mildly back at him, then caught Meli and Dirk's eyes and shrugged. "That's my brother Collum," she told them off-handedly.

Collum managed a hoarse "Hullo" as he rearranged the contents of his cart and pushed it over to them. Without a word, Crimson retrieved the ruffled owl and set it on her own orderly cart.

"Older or younger?" Dirk asked.

Crimson shuddered. "Twin," she replied, then glanced at Collum and added, viciously, "Hufflepuff!"

ooo

How the four of them ever made it to the train Meli never clearly recalled afterward, but they somehow managed to stow away all of their luggage and to stow themselves away in a compartment together. Somewhere in the course of all of that, Dirk was christened with the nickname Sharpie, and Crimson asked the others to call her Crim.

Collum started out the conversation from there with one of the last questions Meli would ever have expected. "So," he said, looking from Meli to Sharpie, "have you ever gone pranking?"

Sharpie looked regretful. "My parents watch me far too closely," he replied. "I would, though, if I could."

"What is it?" Meli asked quietly.

The question elicited an amused look from Sharpie and outright incredulity from the twins. "You mean you don't know?" Collum breathed, his eyes the size of saucers.

"You've never even been toilet-papering?" Crim added.

Meli shook her head. "It sounds… intriguing… but no, I've never done it. I don't even know what it is."

"You use toilet paper as streamers and… decorate …someone's trees," Collum explained, a slight smirk indicating that "decorate" was probably a euphemism. "You go in the dead of night, of course, so as not to get caught—"

"And don't go too near home," Crim broke in, "or you may be dragged in as a friend to help clean up." She shrugged. "You can make exceptions, of course, for people you particularly don't like."

Collum grinned. "We get Father Moore, the confirmation teacher, every time he makes our class recite the entire catechism—which is once or twice a month at least."

"You don't like catechism?" Meli hazarded. She hadn't the faintest idea what confirmation involved, or what a catechism was, much less what a full recitation of it might entail, and it utterly mystified her that the man they called father would live in a different house.

Crim shrugged again. "Oh, _we_ don't mind it so much. But everyone else does."

"We get back at him for all the other stuff he inflicts on us," Collum said. "But since we time it right, he thinks it's someone else because of the catechism."

"He's even waited for us a few times," Crim said airily. "But we're too smart for him. He sees his house TPed before his eyes, and he's never yet been able to catch us."

"Invisibility cloaks?" Sharpie guessed.

"Nothing so fancy," Collum replied. "Much more practical to dress in all black and make like a shadow."

Crim snickered. "After we've been confirmed, we're going to fork his lawn. All he can do then is try to excommunicate us, but Mam and Da will put a stop to _that_."

Meli nearly smiled in her confusion. "Fork?" she repeated. If they had a "da" who was obviously a different person from the "father", it stood to reason that "father" was a title of some sort—though of what, she couldn't reasonably say.

"Oh, yeah," Crim answered. "You put plastic forks in the lawn to spell out messages."

"And what messages will you leave for him?" Sharpie asked.

Crim snorted. "Nothing that bears repeating in polite company. Collum's still working on the precise wording of it."

"_I_ am?!" Collum's eyes flashed. "You always blame me and get off scot-free! Do you know Mam and Da still think _I_ was the one who messed up the poodle?"

Crim looked patiently at him. "Collum, you _were_ in on the poodle incident."

"But _you_ helped! I came up with it, sure, but _you_ planned it out!"

The others traded nonplused looks. "Poodle?" Meli asked faintly.

"We had a teacher we despised," Crim sighed. "_Dear_ Mrs. Holland. So to show her just how much we appreciated her, we dognapped her beloved purebred French poodle Leo, covered it with talcum powder and pink hair spray, gave it a Mohawk, and tied it to the flagpole in front of the school."

"With a note 'round its neck saying, 'Mrs. Holland Is An Idiot'," Collum added.

"'Mrs. Holland Is A _Bloody Fool_'," Crim corrected acidly. "If you're going to take credit, be a man and take full credit for the whole thing!" She looked long-sufferingly to Meli. "He's going to be a Hufflepuff—only an act of Divine Providence could get him into Gryffindor."

Collum plainly couldn't think of anything to say to that, but he made up for it by slugging his sister in the arm.

The mention of Houses threw a quaver into Meli's stomach. "And what about you, Crim?" she asked softly. "Where do you think you'll be placed?"

"Possibly Ravenclaw," Crim replied easily. "Though I _am_ hoping for Slytherin."

Meli felt suddenly very cold. "But what about Slytherin House's reputation?"

Crim's eye found and held hers with a shrewd and knowing look. "Fewer go bad than not. You show me a truly clever and crafty person tried-and-true—show me a person so calculating and dangerous as to be a devastating detriment to You-Know-Who—and I'll name him a Slytherin not gone bad."

**PRESENT: JUNE  
**Meli Ebony sank gratefully into her chair as the last of her students filed out. It was the last Friday before exams, and she had survived it. She leaned back, stretching her arms and pretending for a long, delicious moment that she didn't have of work still left to do, and none of it had a thing to do with school.

When not sitting or lying down, Meli stood a full five feet, eleven inches, down half of which height flowed a straight waterfall of glossy black hair that behaved whether it wanted to or not. She had long since grown out her fringe, leaving her widow's peak open to observation. Bright, icy blue eyes glittered in a face paler than milk; the only other colors in her complexion were the pallid pink of her cheeks and the lighter pink of her lips. Had her students believed in magical creatures, she might have been open to accusations of being a vampire.

Her short break was interrupted by a timid knock at the door. She looked up, beckoning a shy student to enter. The girl tiptoed uneasily to Meli's desk to whisper, "Miss Ebony, there's a scary-looking man asking for you."

Meli's skin prickled, but she looked carefully unconcerned. "Scary-looking in what way?"

"Looks like a vampire, miss—longish black hair, very pale, and wears a cape."

Meli smiled in spite of herself. _So much for that thought._ "Does he speak civilly?"

The girl's eyes darted nervously. "Yes, miss, but very impatiently."

"Thank you for letting me know," Meli told her. "I'll take care of it."

The girl nodded and dashed from the room, squealing in alarm as she narrowly missed a man standing in the hallway. He stood aside to let her pass before rapping at the open door.

"Come in, Professor Snape," Meli called, standing to greet him. "Welcome to Surrey."

"Miss Ebony." Snape bowed from the neck as he entered. "I see you've been told I'm here."

"Mmm." Meli smiled wryly. "I was also told you were wearing a cape, but you seem to have lost it since Miss Applegate first saw you."

Snape arched an eyebrow. "Who in his right mind would be wearing a cape in this weather?"

"Had you been wearing one, sir, I should have asked you the same thing." She raised her own eyebrows. "So what brings you to this little corner of the world?"

"Official business for Hogwarts," Snape answered crisply. "Since I know you better than Professor Dumbledore does, he asked me to come and see you."

Meli regarded him coolly for a moment then came around her desk and leaned back against it, her eyes never leaving Snape. "You want me to come to Hogwarts for my protection. Voldemort's back, and you think he'll come after me."

Snape raised his eyebrows. "On the contrary, Miss Ebony, Professor Dumbledore wants you to come to Hogwarts to teach, and if it comes to anyone going after someone, I would expect you to go after the Dark Lord rather than the other way 'round."

Meli instinctively kept her surprise from her face; by now Snape knew her well enough to recognize it anyway. "You want me to _teach_," she repeated. "To teach what, Muggle Studies? I'm hardly qualified for much else."

"You're highly qualified for both Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts," Snape countered. "I told you once that I would gladly recommend you for either of those positions, and I was quite serious."

"So you're asking me to teach Potions, then?"

"No," Snape replied. "To teach Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Meli felt her eyebrows rise nearly to her widow's peak. "Of all people, Professor, _you_ are asking me to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts?"

"I trust you to teach it." His expression and tone were dark. "Do you honestly think I want to teach Defense because I hate Potions?"

"I hope that's a rhetorical question."

Snape's mouth quirked. "We've had a rash of bad Dark Arts teachers lately," he said. "You, however, are trustworthy, and I know for a fact that you know the material."

Meli sighed. "Sir, I know it because I have to. That doesn't mean I'm qualified to teach it."

"I'm not asking you to make an immediate decision," he assured her. "I only came to ask you to interview for the position."

"Your request is interestingly timed, though." She cleared her throat. "I had a seizure just last week—at least, that's what the Muggles called it. I recognized it as a series of Unforgivables, starting with a few rounds of Cruciatus with an unsuccessful _Kedavra_ thrown in… And then there was a very interesting one the following evening that I believe you probably know about already. Are you in any way hoping to protect me from either myself or Voldemort?"

Snape seemed to be chewing on something very unpleasant before he replied, "_I_ am fully aware of your ability to take care of yourself, Miss Ebony. Professor Dumbledore may be hoping to protect you, but it was I who suggested you for the position. Protection, should you choose to accept it, is a side benefit only."

"And if I have another episode, are you prepared to take over the teaching of my classes while I recover?"

"Naturally." Snape's eyes glittered. "It would be my pleasure."

Meli smirked. "Naturally."

"Shall I tell the headmaster you intend to interview?"

She nodded. "Yes. I'll send an owl setting the date." She hesitated before reluctantly changing the subject. "Have you heard about the Skulkers yet, Professor?"

Snape's brow furrowed. "No—not since you all graduated."

"The Fells have had to go into hiding since Voldemort returned," she told him. "Because of me."

"And Pierce?" Snape's brow furrowed further.

Meli laughed mirthlessly. "As I said, sir, your visit is peculiarly timed. Dirk Pierce visited just yesterday to issue a warning."

"A _warning_?"

"For old times' sake, he said. He needed no other words, as you may imagine, sir; he bared his arm long enough to show me the Dark Mark, then left." She forced a smile. "I've had in place an escape plan for years—one that can go into effect at a moment's notice. I'd been ready to leave anyway, but after Pierce's visit… well, suffice it to say that I have no intention of staying around to finish out the school term."

Snape's eyes darted rapidly to and fro; she could only imagine the thoughts and calculations passing behind them. "You didn't leave immediately."

"They were watching for that, to see if I'd contact anyone," she pointed out. "No. I had already relocated my necessities—with proper caution, of course—and I planned to apparate from here after work this afternoon." She smiled, far more genuinely. "Once again, your timing is impeccable."

"Why not come directly to Hogwarts, then?" Snape suggested.

"I have some business to attend to first, sir," she replied. "Otherwise, I would. I need to arrange a temporary caretaker for my familiar, and there are a few other things that need to be packed in a rather precise fashion." She smiled. "However, I do hope to see you within a few days."


	2. Golden Blood

Chapter 2: Golden Blood

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** While this chapter is necessary for people wishing to pick up clues that will become important later, it is not absolutely necessary that you read it here and now, since everything in this scene will be talked about more generally later on. This chapter contains graphic gore, some violence, and character death (including a young child); if you wish to skip over it, go on to the next chapter.  
AE

**Chapter 2: Golden Blood**  
Snape, Lucius Malfoy, and four other Death Eaters stood before Voldemort in a semicircle. The Dark Lord called one of the others forward: an initiate who had received the Dark Mark but who had yet to prove his worth. The initiate was tall and thin—and young. He had come to Voldemort highly recommended and with a reputation for tenacity and viciousness, but tonight he would have to demonstrate both once and for all.

And, by a sick twist of fate, Snape was the one Voldemort had appointed to observe and critique.

That in itself was bad enough, but then Voldemort explained to the initiate the sixteen year history leading up to what he would be ordered to do tonight, and Snape felt a nauseating wave of horror wash over him. It was bad enough that he would have to oversee and approve a multiple homicide, but even worse, it would hurt someone he very much cared about—a friend he had done his best to protect for the better part of two decades. To the initiate, this intended victim and her family were just like any other potential victims; to Snape, observing these particular murders constituted one of the deepest possible betrayals he could ever commit.

The initiate, meanwhile, bowed until his head touched the ground. "Thank you, milord," he said quietly. "I will not disappoint you."

Voldemort smiled coldly. "I hope not."

There was only one thought running through Snape's mind as he, too bowed: _Less than a week into this bloody war, and __I've already failed her._

ooo

The appointed victims were Elizabeth Golden, a twenty-seven year-old Muggle who had never heard of the wizarding world, her husband John, and their four year-old daughter. All three of them had a very quick, very nasty, and very final catch-up course in the existence and power of wizards, beginning with the sudden appearance of six Death Eaters in their London flat.

Elizabeth's husband shouted for her to grab their daughter and run, but that was as far as he got. The initiate stunned him, and he dropped like a stone, drawing a shriek of "John!" from his wife. Two burly Death Eaters seized Elizabeth to prevent an attempt at escape. Snape himself managed to avoid direct involvement in these preliminaries by casting silencing charms over the flat, a task which kept him otherwise occupied—not that he found much comfort in that.

When he turned back, he saw two idle Death Eaters and only two Goldens. While it was the initiate's job to make all three kills, it was up to the others to assist him, and these two were falling short of expectations. It was Snape's duty as the observer to rectify that, so, though he had much rather disapparate away from the nightmare entirely, he looked sharply at the idle twosome and barked out the order, "Find the girl!"

The two of them snapped to it, leaving the room and returning soon after with a tiny blonde, curly-haired girl whose china blue eyes were flowing with terrified tears.

Elizabeth was turning hysterical, first screaming her daughter's name, then begging and pleading with each unmerciful mask in turn: "Please let her go. Do whatever you want with me, but _please_ let her go!"

The initiate ignored her, turning instead to one of the Death Eaters holding the child. "I need your help for the moment," he said. "I think that one wizard is more than enough to hold a little, snot-nosed brat." His voice was tainted by a cold sneer.

Malfoy stiffened and pointed to Snape. "Why don't you ask him?"

"Because I'm here to observe, Lucius," Snape snapped. "Now do as he asks."

Malfoy wasn't happy with the arrangement, but he stepped away from the little girl and over John Golden.

"Now," the initiate told him softly, "I am going to make this as clear as possible. I will hold this _thing_ up, and you will bind him, spread-eagle, to the wall. Is that understood?"

Snape had to struggle to breathe normally; the air froze in his lungs almost as soon as the initiate began speaking. Voldemort had made a splendid choice with this particular recruit, a better choice than even the Dark Lord probably realized. Such a casual disregard (or, if the initiate felt otherwise, such a skill at pretending to that disregard) did not come naturally in most people this young.

Malfoy, meanwhile, had narrowed his eyes to angry slits, but he nodded silently. The initiate looked evaluatively at him a moment, as if gauging the older Death Eater's stomach, then he bent over John Golden's still form.

"What are you going to do?" Elizabeth asked, her voice trembling. "Why are you doing this to us?"

"Quiet, you!" one of her captors snarled, slapping her soundly across the face.

The initiate whirled to catch the man's eye and wagged a chiding finger. "Manners, manners," he admonished coolly.

Snape felt his skin crawl and had to force himself not to recoil, not only at the initiate's casual manner but also at the look—or lack thereof—in his eyes. In place of calm collectedness, he saw an eerie detachment; the man had completely left himself.

The initiate turned suddenly again, and, in a single, smooth motion, he caught and lifted John by the throat and slammed him into the wall. Malfoy obediently bound the Muggle in place, freeing the initiate to release his hold and step back. His satisfied survey of the scene was interrupted by an increased volume in Elizabeth's sobs, and he slowly turned and glided over to her. She flinched at his approach, but her guards held her in place as the initiate took hold of her shoulders and lowered his head to whisper in her ear.

Whatever it was that he said, she whipped her head back. "No!" she whispered in horror. Her eyes widened and fastened on her weeping daughter. Satisfied, the initiate stepped away from her and turned his attention to her guards.

"Move her over by the fireplace," he ordered. "I want her to have a good view. Keep the brat behind me—_she_ will have a good enough view from there." And then he looked back to John.

Snape was sliding his own eyes after the initiate when they met and locked with Elizabeth's. He wanted to look away, but she held his gaze, as if trying to see the face beneath his mask. He had been searched that way once before, and that person had, after a very long time, discerned his identity. He knew that it could happen again—and it could happen here and now because Elizabeth had met him once, long ago. He wanted to look away, but something held his eyes, transfixed, to hers.

And then she made it even worse—she started to plead with him.

"Please, sir, just let us go. You've more than made your point!"

Snape felt the eyes of all of the other Death Eaters fasten on him, and he played the role he must, staring back at her and replying silkily, "But Elizabeth, I don't believe we have."

Her eyes widened in astonished recognition, and Snape cursed himself for speaking. She might not have lived long enough to remember him, but his voice in that tone was distinctive, a dead giveaway. "Mr. Snape!" she whispered in shock. "No—you ate with us. You—you were a good man. You would never be involved with something like this!"

The words were a deep-slashing blade, but, maintaining his role, Snape tilted his head to one side and crossed his arms carelessly. "Do you _really_ think this is the first time?"

Elizabeth shook her head in hopeless, bewildered silence. Seeing that she had said as much as she would, Snape waved his hand for the initiate to return to his grisly task.

The initiate looked back to John, drew his wand, and murmured, "_Enervate_." The Muggle woke with what might have been a terrified start, but bound as he was, he had nowhere to go. Once he figured out the reason for his immobility, he started to struggle frantically, to no avail. The initiate drew a wicked-looking blade from beneath his robes, drawing screams from Elizabeth and making John blanch; Snape, for his part, envied the Goldens, knowing as he did that they would not have to live long with these memories.

"Please, no…" John whispered, rivulets of sweat pouring down his face.

As if in answer, the initiate tore the Muggle's shirt off and raised the knife to his victim's chest. A single thrust would be enough to kill, Snape knew; then he would kill the other two, and this particular nightmare would end.

But that hope, which he hadn't even realized was unreasonable, was violently dashed. The initiate touched the tip to John's skin over the sternum and sliced him open from the notch at the top of the breastbone to the naval. The Muggle screamed in agony, but the initiate seemed not to notice; he cut John twice more, crossing the chest beneath the collarbones and his abdomen beneath the ribs.

The young Death Eater carefully peeled back the skin over John's chest and abdomen, and Snape saw that only the skin had been scored with the blade. The intact muscles beneath twitched in concert with the Muggle's screaming and writhing. The initiate stepped back and to the side to give the man's wife and child a clear view of his full, wretched figure.

Snape's eyes were drawn irresistibly back to the woman and girl. Elizabeth was sobbing and whimpering uncontrollably; the foul scent of vomit reached him, and he saw that she had emptied her stomach on the floor.

Her daughter had gone silent and deathly pale. She stared, wide-eyed, at her father, an awful, haunted look shadowing her face as John writhed and screamed in agony. Her innocence was more than tainted by this; it was destroyed irrevocably, and where Snape had been able to help the last child he'd seen tormented this way, this time he had stood by and allowed it—all for the sake of keeping his cover as a spy.

Self-loathing welled up in him, and he again envied the Goldens their coming deaths. If no lives had depended on him serving as a spy, he would have been sorely tempted to end his own. If Voldemort's second rise _began_ like this, what would happen before the end?

"_Enervate_."

Snape tore his eyes away from the child. John had lost consciousness and had been just as quickly revived. The new Death Eater put away his wand and made two more sure strokes with his knife, cutting John's muscles along the sternum and opening his abdomen, disemboweling him. Young he might be, but every move he made demonstrated experience, and Snape had the sickening epiphany that this newest Death Eater had killed in this way before.

And he wasn't finished yet.

He tucked his knife into John's trouser pocket, then stretched and cracked his knuckles before what was probably his grand finale.

_What more is there for him to do?!_

The initiate took a deep breath and reached forward, underneath the pectoral muscles, to hook his fingers around John's ribs. Then, with a surging jerk upward, he split the sternum and opened his victim's chest. John screamed, his voice rising in pitch beyond the ability of vocal cords to handle or human ears to hear. Elizabeth fainted with a shriek, only to be enervated by one of the Death Eaters holding her.

The initiate paused briefly, then retrieved his knife and, at long last, mercifully plunged it into John's heart so powerfully that the blade embedded itself inches deep in the wall beyond.

Snape watched, stomach roiling, as the initiate stepped back from his kill to survey it… and then came the last thing he would have expected. The initiate stiffened, almost imperceptibly, as if he had come back to himself and actually realized what he'd done—

And then it was gone. The initiate detached again and turned to look at Elizabeth.

He walked slowly over to her and regarded her thoughtfully. "What shall I do with you?" he asked softly.

"Please don't hurt my mummy."

The initiate turned to gaze coldly at the child behind him then turned back to her mother. "You asked me to spare your daughter's life, did you not?"

_He's toying with her_. _He can't spare her—the orders are clear._

Elizabeth, unaware of the Death Eater's orders, nodded frantically, still sobbing too hard to speak.

"Perhaps I will," the initiate mused. "_If_ you amuse me enough." He brought his wand around, resting its tip on her forehead. "Beg."

And she did beg, but not effectively enough. The initiate cocked his head. "You need to be more convincing. Let me help." He seemed to be smirking derisively behind his mask. "_Crucio._"

Elizabeth thrashed and screamed for about twenty seconds, until her tormentor lifted the curse and leaned forward. "Try again."

"You've already killed my husband, and you're going to kill me!" she implored hoarsely. "You don't need her blood, too—she's been terrorized enough. _Please_, somewhere inside you, you know this is wrong. Just let her _go_!"

All her pleas earned her was another round of the Cruciatus. The initiate glanced at the clock and lifted the curse to idly twirl his wand between his fingers, while Elizabeth crawled agonizingly toward her daughter.

She never made it. The initiate brought his wand to bear and hissed a new curse: "_Sangrio poros._"

_Oh, God _no.

Elizabeth dropped once more to the floor, blood pouring from every pore in her body and the pitch of her screams rivaling her husband's from a few minutes before. She somehow struggled doggedly onward, reaching out to her daughter.

The initiate watched the scene for a few minutes, and then it seemed to Snape that he was actually growing bored. He glanced briefly at Snape then turned back to Elizabeth, who was in agony and yet still entertained some hope for her daughter's survival.

"You cease to amuse me," the Death Eater flatly informed her.

Snape saw the last light die in Elizabeth's eyes as the initiate turned now on the child. The mother's wail drowned out his words, but the flash of green light and the little girl's immediate fall told him all he needed to know. Elizabeth threw herself at the child's body, bleeding out and dying shortly after, never having reached her daughter.

The silence that reigned for a few moments afterward was oppressive. At last, though, Snape had to speak; he was, after all, the one in command on this raid.

"Our lord is expecting a report," he said, surprised at how calmly the words came out.

The initiate sent up a Dark Mark, and all of them disapparated, leaving the spectacle to the Aurors and whoever they brought in to identify the bodies.


	3. Bane

Chapter 3: Bane

**Chapter 3: Bane**  
Meli was perhaps half an hour from finally leaving when a most unwanted owl arrived to put a serious crimp in her plans. It was an official owl, probably from Hogwarts, she thought at first, but the seal on the envelope and the letterhead on the parchment immediately disillusioned her. This letter wasn't from Dumbledore or Snape but from the law enforcement division of the Ministry of Magic. That, as well as the fact that the letter conveniently failed to mention why she was being summoned, were sufficient to tell her everything she needed to know, except whose body she would be identifying.

She'd had a letter like this one before.

"Go away," she said irritably, shooing the owl. "I'll be along shortly." The owl ruffled his feathers importantly and left in a snit.

Meli finished packing one last box, addressing it to herself at Hogwarts, then pulled out and set aside her recently-packed broomstick. Then she stepped outside the room and disapparated.

ooo

The last time she'd come, she had been thirteen and accompanied by a teacher. Now she was twenty-seven, old enough to be perfectly capable of identifying a body without an adult present but not old enough to be comfortable with the trappings of bureaucracy and ivory-tower mentality that assaulted her.

An official-looking receptionist directed her to an official-looking office at the end of a marble hallway populated entirely by official-looking people conducting official business. Fourteen years earlier, Meli had found that walk to be terrifying and intimidating; now it was just plain irritating. That anyone could carry on business like a well-oiled, apathetic machine when lives now hung in the balance of every major decision was inexcusable. The fact that the head of the Ministry himself did so because he refused to believe that Voldemort had returned—in spite of evidence like bodies that needed identification—only angered her further.

By the time an official-looking Auror came out to speak with her, Meli had to force her teeth apart to make any reply.

"Hello," the Auror said in a bored tone. "You must be Miss Ebony."

"Indeed," Meli growled. "And I don't suppose you'd be willing to tell me who in blazes _you_ are and what this is all about?"

The Auror raised his eyebrows, thoroughly unimpressed and, to make matters worse for himself, rather condescending on top of it. "Alden Sandyman, Deputy Auror. And all this is about identifying some bodies."

She barely held back her fist. Assaulting a law enforcement officer, even one like Sandyman, could bring consequences that even she wouldn't be able to slip out of. She took a moment to calm down beneath the cool façade she wore like a second skin then smiled.

Her smile, as cold and calculating as a pit viper's, had its desired effect and more. To judge by the look on Sandyman's face, he'd probably wet himself by the time he managed to stammer, "Er, if you'll follow me?"

Once his back was turned, Meli permitted herself a smirk before returning to her customary mask. She followed him out of the office and down a hallway, this one more antiseptic than official, then into what anyone, Muggle or wizard, would recognize as a morgue.

There were three sheet-covered forms, one unusually small and another with something stuck in it that held its sheet up over it like an odd, squarish sort of tent. The third form, placed between the others, was covered with a blood-spattered sheet. Sandyman walked to that one first.

"Any stupid remarks to get out of your system beforehand?" Meli asked dangerously.

Sandyman's eyes widened, and he wordlessly shook his head. Then he looked to her, seeking permission to continue; she nodded firmly and set her teeth, prepared for the worst.

She had purposely not allowed herself to speculate on the victim's identity, but this was far worse than she had feared. The sheet pulled back to reveal a face torn by agony and hopelessness and terror. Every pore showed traces of red, and hair that had once been smooth gold was now tangled and burnished with blood. Wide eyes the color of the summer sky stared into eternity.

This was not a witch. She hadn't know anything about the world to which Meli belonged, but that hadn't saved her. As a child, she had chattered endlessly about magic and fairy-tale and pretend, and Meli had known that the time would come when she would have to tell her playmate about the grim reality of magic and Voldemort. She had never got around to it, hoping that, as a Muggle, her friend would be beneath notice.

So much for hope.

"Elizabeth Cameron Golden," she whispered, drawing a rattling breath. "Death Eaters?"

Sandyman hesitated but nodded. "There was a Dark Mark sent up afterward."

"How did she die?"

The Auror stared at her, taken aback by the question, but after a moment he answered, "It was a Sangriatus Poros that killed her. She'd had a few rounds of Cruciatus beforehand, as well."

Meli caught and held his eye. "And her husband and daughter?"

He swallowed, hard, then stepped to the body to Elizabeth's right—the one with something apparently stuck into it along each side.

"I hope you haven't eaten lately?" he said, almost apologetically.

Meli set her jaw. "As long as it doesn't smell sweet, I'll be fine."

Sandyman frowned, but he knew better than to ask. He slowly drew back the sheet to reveal another face frozen in agony and fear. The damage below that, though, challenged even Meli's stomach.

This one was a man in his late twenties, who in life had had well-defined muscles. Those muscles were now bared; his skin had been cut away in two flaps extending from his collar bone to his belly. The muscles, too, were cut away, revealing a now nearly empty body cavity.

_He looks like—like a dissected frog._ It was the only parallel her horror-frozen mind could find for the surgically precise cuts.

The worst of it, though, was what had caused the odd tenting effect of the sheet. His sternum had been broken, his ribs split apart to reveal the heart that still lay in his chest, now with a strange, ornate black-handled knife buried in it.

It was several minutes before she could again find her voice. "John Golden," she finally choked out. "Elizabeth's husband." She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. "How—?"

Sandyman cleared his throat. "It's the knife, Miss Ebony," he explained unsteadily. "The only magic we could pick up were traces of a Stunning spell and a… a few Enervations."

"It makes sense," she heard her own voice say aloud. "They would want him awake for the pain." She forced her eyes open again and looked across John's body to meet the Auror's eyes once more. "But I've never heard of Death Eaters killing someone this way, with almost no magic at all—especially when killing Muggles."

The other's careless air was long gone. "No. This is the first killing of its sort that we know of. You-Know-Who has developed quite the brutal imagination during his exile."

Meli didn't bother to reply, but she suspected that the Auror's theory was heading in a wrong direction. A killing of this sort so close to Voldemort's return was either a message or an initiation—or both. Either Voldemort was asserting his power once and for all, or he had taken in a particularly ambitious and inhuman initiate who had gone out of the way to impress him with excessive brutality.

It was oddly comforting, in spite of it all, to notice that Sandyman, for all of his bureaucratic trappings, wasn't following his fearless leader into willful denial. And if even an idiot like him realized that Voldemort truly had returned… well, there was some hope, at least.

The third body was as horrifying as the last, but for vastly different reasons. It was the Goldens' four year-old daughter, in life a miniature of her mother, in death very much the same. She alone hadn't been tampered with; she alone had died neatly and without much physical pain.

Meli played through the probable sequence in her mind. John had died first, and the others had probably been forced to watch. His torture and death had taken a great deal of time, requiring quicker executions for the others.

Elizabeth had been next, and because Sangriatus Poros was a slow-acting curse, she may even have been still alive when her daughter was killed with a _Kedavra_. The child was unscathed, but she had died screaming in terror.

Meli raised unreadable eyes to Sandyman once more. "Their daughter," she said, her voice aural marble. "Her name was Meli Golden."

_Malfoy did it. He found Andrew's family. _She swallowed. _I have to tell them everything._

**JUNE 1986, AFTER SEVENTH YEAR  
**When they had arrived at the restaurant and the rest of the Camerons hadn't been there, Meli had very nearly turned around and walked right back out. She hadn't, though, and now, as if following an atrociously written script, she sat across from Andrew at a table for two, hoping and praying that the back of her neck would not go cold.

The ostentatiousness of the restaurant and Andrew's nervousness told her everything she needed to know, so she set her teeth and braced herself for the moment when she would have to wound his pride. Breaking his heart wasn't a real possibility, since she didn't see how he _could_ love her; he was too focused on _helping_ her—on _fixing_ her—to have much room left for genuine affection. She was, in his eyes, not his beloved but his project.

With painful and pathetic predictability, he took it into his head to propose at dessert—which he had insisted she order, whether she ate it or not. As soon as the waiter was gone, she shoved aside the chocolate cake, the sweet fumes from it already threatening the security of her stomach. She over-calculated and actually pushed it onto the floor, but she didn't care and Andrew didn't notice; he was too busy fiddling with something in his pocket.

He pulled it free now, and it was, as Meli had known it would be, a black velvet ring box. He opened it and leaned toward her.

"Andrew, don't," she ordered, making good use of a glare she'd learned from Professor Snape. "Just put it back and walk away."

He set his jaw. "You know I can't do that, Meli."

"Oh, no?"

"No." He held out the box. "I love you. Is a man to stop his heart?"

She threw down her napkin. "He had better," she hissed, "or I will. I do not love _you_, Andrew, and even if I did, I would refuse your hand. There's a very good reason for my desire to remain both friendless and unattached. If you really cared for me as you seem to _think_ you do, you would attempt to discover that reason, or at least honor it unknown, instead of forcing an issue you have no right to introduce."

She would have said more, but a cold clamminess touched the back of her neck.

She stood suddenly, spilling her untouched wine, snatched up her handbag and ran, hoping Andrew hadn't been seen with her. She didn't dare hope that he wouldn't follow her; a badly written script must, after all, play out all the way through. She could only hope that _he_ wouldn't be followed.

Meli made it as far as the entrance to the nearest tube station before Andrew caught up to her. She stopped, her hand on the railing.

"You don't understand, do you?" she called over her shoulder.

"Then _help_ me understand!" he puffed right behind her, far closer than she had expected.

She turned at last, her face cold and impassive. "You know that I come from a dark past, Andrew," she said, her voice deadly calm. "People who get too close to me end up dead—_horribly_ dead. I told you as much five years ago."

"You're just trying to shut me out!" he shouted, drawing the eyes of not a few passers-by.

"And you're behaving like a child whose mother refuses to buy him a shiny new toy." Her voice was harsher than she'd meant it to be, but if it made him go away, she would go with it. "I do wish we could be friends, Andrew, but you won't allow it."

She started to turn away from him to go to the tube, but the back of her neck went cold once more and she froze.

"Phamelia," a hard female voice purred. "Fancy meeting you out here in the street."

"That's not my name."

Narcissa stepped into her field of vision to glare at her. "It is the name your grandfather gave you."

Narcissa Malfoy was the cleverest of her kind to be excluded from Voldemort's Inner Circle, and that exclusion was less the Dark Lord's preference than a convenient cover for her which he allowed because of its potential usefulness. She gave the perfect appearance of being a magical Mafia wife—either unaware of her husband's activities, or uncaring as long as her life continued normally. In reality, she was as cold-blooded and brutal as Lucius was, and, arguably, far more subtle and clever.

Meli met the Death Eater's eye without flinching. "My grandfather's dead."

To her horror, Narcissa's eyes flicked past her to rest on Andrew. "And is this young gentleman a friend of yours?"

"No," Meli lied easily. "I've never met him before; I just bumped into him on the street."

"You lying ingrate!" Andrew yelled, as she'd feared he probably would do. Try as she might to protect him, he would throw his life away; he was too stupid to be even a Gryffindor. "I've only just _proposed_ to you!"

"Oh," Narcissa said quietly. "How touching."

"Andrew, run!" Meli breathed. "Get away from here _now!_"

She saw Narcissa's wand and whirled, then heard the words _Avada Kedavra_ and saw a green flash as Andrew dropped in mid-stride… but her muscles froze, keeping her from somehow intervening. The Death Eater faded into the night, and Andrew hit the ground five feet from her.

Meli cursed herself for the show she now had to put on for the Muggles, but she had to play her abominable role to the end.

"Andrew!" she shrieked, at last dashing to him. She knew he was dead where he lay, but she couldn't let anyone know it. A crowd started to gather, so she looked up, a false hysteria supplanting the real hysterics that threatened to break free.

"Someone dial three nines!"

ooo

She stood silently at his graveside a week later, watching as soil was slowly piled atop his coffin. The Camerons had stopped trying to reassure her days before, seeming to understand that she would always blame herself. They all grieved for the same man, but she stood apart from them, half-truths and implied lies separating her from them. They believed him the victim of an undetectable congenital heart defect, and she let them do so. They believed he had left behind a new fiancée, and she let them think in that, as well. Andrew's ring, which she would never have worn in his lifetime, was on her finger now, and it would be there until her death—or so she vowed; it was a necessary reminder of the consequences of allowing anyone to come too close.

The Camerons had long since left, even Elizabeth and her mother, who had lingered over the grave, and still Meli stood beside Andrew's headstone. A strange tapping sensation, like a kitten starting to walk, crept over her spine, and a shadow crossed the grass in front of her.

"Hello, Professor Snape," she said, without looking up. "This is an odd place to run into you."

"Miss Ebony," he said gravely. "I thought perhaps the sight of a cheerful face might help you in your present state."

At the thought of Snape's being a cheerful face, Meli laughed out loud. She looked up to find a sardonic turn in one side of his mouth and a wicked gleam in his eye.

"In truth, sir," she said, still laughing, "I've had my fill of friendly faces this past week. I was rather hoping for a dour one."

"Then it appears I've arrived just in time."

She sobered a bit. "It _was_ good of you to come," she said quietly. "Not to mention rather dangerous, in light of recent events."

His expression turned sour. "If either of the Malfoys so much as sniff their noses around here, I'll Obliviate them so completely they'll forget they have superiority complexes."

Meli smirked. "I didn't think there was a charm strong enough," she remarked. "Though it is a heartwarming thought."

They were silent a moment before Snape spoke again. "Have your plans altered at all?"

She shook her head. "No, sir," she answered. "I'm still going to university in America, it'll still be a Muggle university instead of Blackwing, I'm still going to hide myself among Muggles, and I'm still going to pursue a degree in primary education. What I do after that depends greatly upon what happens in the meantime."

Snape caught her eye. "Should you ever decide to teach at Hogwarts," he said seriously, "I would be happy to recommend you for either Potions or Defense Against the Dark Arts."

He had to be joking, she knew, but he'd hidden his humor now even better than he usually did. After a minute or so of searching for his hidden smirk, she smiled and took the offer at face value—for the moment, at least. "Thank you, sir," she replied. "I'll keep it in mind."

"Moreover," Snape continued, as if there had been no pause, "should you find yourself in need of assistance at any time, don't hesitate to contact me. My resources are limited, but I will help as I can."

She smiled faintly. "If not for you, Professor, I should consider myself fatherless," she said. "You've always been my protector, even when I didn't see it so." She nodded once, formally. "Should I need your assistance, I give you my word I'll contact you. Please accept my gratitude in advance."


	4. Erased

Chapter 4: Erased

**Chapter 4: Erased**  
**PRESENT: JUNE**

_To Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Dear Sir:  
My departure has been significantly delayed because of the sudden death of an old friend. I must, therefore, request a postponement of our appointment while I attend her funeral and make some necessary arrangements. A delay of no more than one week should suffice. I humbly apologise for any inconvenience this may cause you.  
Sincerely,  
Meli Ebony_

ooo

Immediately after posting her letter to Dumbledore and making an emergency Floo call, Meli apparated again, this time into a Muggle neighborhood. She arrived after dark and between two trees, minimizing the chance that anyone about would see anything odd. A few minutes later, another witch arrived, appearing in the trees just behind her.

"Welcome to England," Meli said dryly.

"Thanks," the other replied, tugging at the collar on her Muggle blouse. "Sorry about the delay. You caught me over at my parents' house, so I had to change out of robes." She had an American accent, dark curly hair, and a businesslike manner. Her build was more solid than Meli's, and she stood a full inch taller.

"A small delay won't matter," Meli replied, stepping out from between the trees. "You have everything?"

The American nodded. "Yeah. This'll be the first time I've gone through the spiel with Muggles, though." She followed Meli across the yard and up the porch steps.

"Don't worry." Meli sighed. "They know more than they think they do."

The other looked narrowly at her. "Oh, peachy."

Meli smiled in spite of herself as she knocked. A moment later, the door opened to reveal a blond man about thirty years old with a drawn face and hollow eyes.

"Meli!" An anxious smile flickered briefly to life then died almost immediately. "Have you heard, then?"

She nodded slowly. "Yes." She beckoned the other witch forward. "Scott, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine—Andrea Underhill. She's here to help."

Scott locked eyes with Meli for the barest second, then nodded and opened the door to let them in. "The police have been by," he was already saying. "Told us it was some sort of ritual killing. They even think they know who did it, but they can't find him. Mum and Dad are over—afraid to go home." He led them from the entryway to the living room, where five others were already gathered. An older man and woman sat on the couch, their hands tightly clasped between them. A woman about Scott's age sat in a wing-backed chair near the couch, a young boy huddled in her lap and a slightly younger boy at her feet. All looked anxious, and the adults also seemed darkly bewildered. The boys, who were eight and ten, were just young enough not to know what the words "ritual killing" probably entailed.

Her heart went out to all of them, but she couldn't bring them the comfort of saying it wasn't so. The Aurors dispatched to notify Elizabeth's surviving family hadn't lied, after all; everything about Voldemort was ritualistic.

"Hello, Meli," Scott's mother said, a brief touch of her familiar angelic smile surfacing. "I wondered if they'd have told you."

Meli swallowed. "Yes," she replied. "Because of my… history… they thought it would be better if I identified."

"And was—was it… _my sister_ Elizabeth?" Scott asked, turning to face her. "It wasn't a mistake—some other Elizabeth Golden?"

There were no words. Meli shook her head and forced herself to hold her tears at bay.

None of the Camerons made any physical move, but the adults' bewilderment grew. "Why?" Mr. Cameron asked.

Meli exchanged looks with Andrea and cleared her throat. "You know my past—some of it, anyway," she said in a low voice. "I know the Staffords will have told you. I displeased some of my grandfather's friends, and they've made it their mission to kill anyone associated with me." A half-truth, that, but further explanation was impossible at this time, especially with Muggles. "That's why the Staffords were killed. Once these people found me—"

She broke off before an involuntary sob could escape. Identifying her adoptive parents after the Death Eaters had finished with them was one of the most horrifying memories of her childhood, and now it was happening all over again. "I am _so—sorry_ they found your family," she whispered, but the words weren't nearly enough; it was her fault—all of this was her fault. She should have told them before Andrew's death, or, failing that, immediately afterward.

Mrs. Cameron, ever the comforting cherub, left the couch and crossed to hug Meli. "There, there, dear," she crooned, somehow forgetting her own pain for a few brief seconds. "You couldn't have known!"

"I should have warned you, though," Meli said fiercely. "Years ago. But I can try to protect you now, if you're willing."

"Will we have to leave?" Scott's wife Charity asked.

"You'll have to disappear entirely," Andrea answered.

Meli indicated Andrea with one hand. "This is Andrea Underhill, an old friend of mine who's familiar with the people the police are looking for. She can help you get away without being traced."

Scott looked narrowly at Andrea. "How?"

Andrea smiled coolly. "Ever seen the movie _Eraser_?"

He nodded.

"Arnold Schwarzeneggar's character's a rank amateur. He had to fake the deaths. I make it so none of you ever existed. You disappear here, you resurface elsewhere, in a place where—surprise!—you've always been. You'll have to be careful what you say, of course, and you'll be given different names, but otherwise, you've got airtight covers."

"How soon do we have to decide?" Mr. Cameron asked.

Andrea raised her eyebrows and darted a glance at Meli.

"Malfoy's had a decade to work," Meli reminded her in an undertone. "You can bet he'll come here next."

"I can hedge twenty-four hours for you," Andrea said. "But I can't guarantee it, and after midnight on any given night, they'll be ready, willing, and able to strike when the order comes."

The four adults traded dark looks, and Scott cleared his throat. "We need a few minutes to talk."

Meli led Andrea to the kitchen, where they sat at the breakfast table and stared at the mint green walls.

"On the whole, I'd say they took it rather well," Andrea remarked, more to break the silence than anything else.

"That may well be because they don't know what Death Eaters are, and they've never encountered an Auror," Meli retorted.

Andrea looked narrowly at her. "So you didn't tell them nine years ago?"

"The medical examiner ruled it a death of natural causes." Meli raised her eyebrows. "What was I supposed to do, tell them she lied?"

"But this is _Muggle_ medicine we're talking about!"

"Yes, Andrea," Meli snapped. "Exactly. And as normal as they seem to you, the Camerons are all Muggles. You do not tell Muggles that their son died from a _Kedavra_ curse." She glared at the tabletop. "If I had warned them, the time would have been best when my parents died. I tried to warn Andrew, in fact, but seeing where that got _him_, how much luck to you think I'd've had with his parents or brother or sister?"

She knew without looking that Andrea's eyes had fixed on the ring she still wore. Even Andrea had never been told the whole story behind it, but she knew more than even the family of its giver did.

"Do you plan on wearing Andrew's ring to your grave?" she asked softly.

"Unless a better ring comes along, yes." The answer might as well have been a direct yes; there really could be no replacement for this one.

They were silent again for a seeming eternity, until Scott came to the doorway and cleared his throat. "We've decided," he said.

ooo

Andrea had already settled on a slow education for the Camerons, but an education was absolutely necessary. With Meli's help, she directed the family to pack their things for transport—essentials only, and absolutely no pictures or mementos of the Goldens. She promised that these mementos would be carefully stored until it was safe enough to bring them out again, and she conveniently neglected to mention what mode of transport she had in mind for the rest of their belongings.

The family was nearly ready to go when the first tidbit of their education arrived.

"Owl mail!" Andrea called, opening the window six inches to admit a small express delivery owl. "It's got your name, Meli."

Without thinking, Meli took the envelope. The owl fluttered to roost on the arm of the couch while she read the letter and wrote a rapid reply. She fished out five knuts for the owl, then handed it her note.

To Andrea's questioning look, she shrugged and said, "Just Dumbledore, letting me know he's postponed my interview a week." She turned back to her task but paused when she saw that Scott and Charity had stopped their packing to stare.

"Er—" Meli smiled wanly. "They're faster than pigeons?"

The owl jerked its head in a nod of adamant agreement and shot out through the window again.

"Plenty of that where we're going," Andrea said casually. To Meli's surprised look, she replied, "Where better to hide them than in a Squib town, dear?"

Meli felt her eyes widen a touch further. "Oh, my."

"A what town?" Scott asked.

Andrea looked thoughtfully at him. "I think it'll be awhile before I can explain the whole thing," she replied after a moment. "In the meantime, I can tell you that Squibs are perfectly normal people—so perfectly normal that those you're hiding from would never think to look for you among them."

Wry amusement touched one corner of Scott's mouth. "Are you saying, then, that we're not perfectly normal?"

"Hm." Andrea cleared her throat. "No. I'm saying that you're normal people associated with someone who's anything but"—she jerked a thumb in Meli's direction—"which means that you stand out against your surroundings. In relocating to a Squib town, you'll ensure that that association will cease to be extraordinary."

"You won't have to cut off all contact with me," Meli assured him. "What Andrea means is that, while Squibs are different from me, they don't consider me abnormal."

Scott and his wife exchanged opaque looks and pointedly returned to their packing. Meli smirked then sharply beckoned to Andrea. "A word, please."

She led the Auror aside. "You know they'll eventually learn far more than Muggles generally like to know if they live among Squibs," she said quietly.

Andrea steadily met her gaze. "Knowledge is power, Meli. They won't know _everything_, but they'll know enough to understand and defend themselves more adequately against the threat."

"They'll think I'm a runaway Death Eater," Meli hissed through her teeth. "What else could they conclude?"

Andrea glanced sidewise at Mrs. Cameron, who had just brought in a packed box. "These people seem far less skeptical than I ever was, and _I_ ended up giving you the benefit of the doubt, if you remember." She looked back to Meli. "They're more forgiving than I think you give them credit for."

Meli sighed. "They _are_ Muggles," she reminded her friend. "Do you think they'll be able to make the adjustment?"

Andrea grinned. "Oh, yeah. For people grounded in empirical science, Muggles are unusually adaptable. Give it ten years, and Scotty, Jr., over there'll be dating Dumbledore's great-great-granddaughter like it was the most normal thing in the world."

The prospect of that sort of social exchange taking place between the Camerons and _any_ old wizarding family—much less the venerated Dumbledore line—amused Meli, but in an odd sort of way, it made perfect sense.

"Well," she said at last, "as long as you break it to them softly, I suppose they'll be able to swallow it one bite at a time."

"Exactly," Andrea replied. "I _did_ say they'd be going to a Squib town. If I really wanted to shock 'em and feed 'em the whole casserole at once, I'd put 'em in Hogsmeade."

"Your mercy astonishes."

**JULY 1979, JUST BEFORE FIRST YEAR  
**The Staffords lived next door to a family named Cameron, and the Camerons' daughter Elizabeth was Meli's age. At first, Meli hoped that her cold behavior and absolute solemnity would drive Elizabeth away, but instead of leaving, the other girl returned repeatedly, determined to be Meli's friend. Mrs. Stafford and Mrs. Cameron were housewives who visited one another constantly, giving Elizabeth even greater opportunity to wear down Meli's resistance over the summer holidays.

Finally, against her better judgment, Meli gave in and consented to spend a night at the Camerons' house. She was a nervous wreck the entire day leading up to it, anticipating the unexpected appearance of a Death Eater and a series of horrifying deaths, but her neck never went cold, and by the time she actually stood in the Camerons' entryway, she was starting to calm down.

Elizabeth soon put a stop to that, though; she was cheerful, bubbly, and very good at talking about things Meli wanted to avoid.

"I _knew_ we'd be great friends the very moment I saw you!" Elizabeth chattered. "And you seem so very lonely!"

"Maybe that's because the only people she ever comes around are dummies like you," Elizabeth's older brother Andrew said as he walked past them in the hall.

Elizabeth gave him a nasty look, then took Meli's arm and led her toward the back of the house. "Will you have a biscuit?"

The image of a man falling to his knees, blood flooding from every cavity in his skull, passed before Meli's eyes. She stopped walking, squeezing her eyes shut and choking down a dry heave. "No, thanks," she managed to say, fairly politely. "I… don't like sweets."

When she opened her eyes again, she saw Elizabeth looking at her with concern. "The taste makes me feel ill," she explained lamely.

"Oh, that's no good!" Elizabeth said, her words thick with pity. "We'll find something for you, then—a scone or some banana bread, maybe. Mum always keeps something around."

They made their way to the kitchen, where Mrs. Cameron stood at the counter, chopping vegetables at a speed which seemed to Meli more magical than Muggle. She looked up and smiled at the girls. "Come for a snack, Lizzy?"

Elizabeth smiled broadly. "Yes, please," she replied. "But Meli can't have sweets, Mum. They make her sick."

Mrs. Cameron set down her knife and looked at Meli, but, mercifully, there was no pity in her gaze. "That's too bad," she replied. "Is it the sugar that does it, Meli?"

Meli shook her head. "No, ma'am. Just the taste. It… catches in my throat."

"I see." She thought a moment, then brightened a bit. "Do you mind sour tastes?"

"No, ma'am."

"What do you think of lemon curd?"

Meli shrugged. "Dunno, ma'am—I've never had it."

"Ooh, it's _very_ sour," Elizabeth said, her eyes sparkling. "Mum makes her own—it's a lot better than what you'd buy."

Mrs. Cameron pulled a Ball jar out of the refrigerator and removed the lid. "Here, have a little taste, dear," she offered. "If you like it, we'll put it on some bread for you."

It would be several years before Meli discovered the secret of Mrs. Cameron's lemon curd, but this first taste was the most powerful, face-puckering sample of pure sour she had ever encountered, and it would never be surpassed.

By the time she was able to unscrunch her eyes, she was smiling with delight. "It's very good, ma'am. Thank you!"

"I daresay you're sweet enough you don't need anything further," Mrs. Cameron remarked kindly. "Some tart might do you good."

Knowing herself as she did, Meli knew that Mrs. Cameron was mistaken, but there was really no polite way for an eleven year-old to correct a well-meaning adult.

ooo

Having never been to a sleepover, Meli had no idea what to expect. Apparently, there were several rituals which she should simply take for granted, but she had no way of knowing what those might be. Elizabeth knew, though, so she cheerfully (_far_ too cheerfully for Meli's liking) led the way.

It was at about 11:30, when Elizabeth whispered conspiratorially that they were up _much _later than Mum or Dad usually allowed, that the second worst of Meli's fears came to pass.

Elizabeth had insisted on playing with Meli's hair, so her fingers were entwined all through it when a flash of pain shot through Meli like a rocket. Whoever it was that Voldemort was torturing did a very good job of holding back a scream, but Meli couldn't. She whipped away from Elizabeth, howling.

One arm slammed into Elizabeth's bed frame, while the other hand clawed at the carpeting. There was no breath in her for explanation, only for screaming as Elizabeth fled the room in terror. Every nerve in her body was afire, every bone in her skeleton was splintering… and then the curse doubled, finally pulling shrieks out of its direct recipient.

The moment lengthened to an eternity, and she closed her eyes against it, screaming until she tasted blood from her own raw throat. Voldemort initiated another Cruciatus and another, soaking her in agony and driving the other victim to raise his voice in a scream that rivaled hers.

Her eyes were so tightly closed that her head ached from the inside. She never saw the five Camerons gathering in the doorway to stare at her, never heard Mrs. Cameron order Scott to dial three nines, but when the Cruciatus finally stopped, she most certainly felt the paramedics' gentle touches, which felt like bruising blows. One cleaned the blood out of her mouth, and the taste of it brought back the vivid memory of her first biscuit.

She rolled onto her side, vomiting violently.

ooo

When she came fully awake, she was lying on a bed in an antiseptic-smelling room. She kept her eyes closed, protection against the light she knew would sear them.

"All Elizabeth said she did was play with Meli's hair," Mrs. Cameron's tearful voice whispered somewhere nearby. "It can't have been something Lizzy did…?"

"No," Mrs. Stafford's voice replied gently. "It's a condition Meli developed shortly before we adopted her. That's why her grandfather could no longer care for her. She had one incident two months ago… I didn't think it would happen tonight, or I would never have let her go. I'm so sorry, Janie."

"Don't be," Mrs. Cameron said. "You couldn't have known. It frightened us, that's all. And Meli is still welcome at any time.

_Oh, lovely,_ Meli thought sourly. _After all of this, I'll _still_ have to put up with Elizabeth. What a lucky duck _I_ am._

Still, as irritating as Elizabeth could be sometimes, Meli had to admit, if only to herself, that having a friend had partly filled in her a void that she had not known existed, never having had a friend before. If Elizabeth disappeared after tonight, Meli knew that she would badly miss her.

**PRESENT: JUNE  
**Meli accompanied the Camerons and helped them settle into their new home. How Andrea had managed to arrange a house, jobs, new identities, and American citizenship for a family of six in under twenty-four hours was beyond Meli's comprehension, but by the time they arrived in America through the international Floo network, everything was in place.

The Camerons' new home was in a primarily Squib town called Reglan, and, as Andrea had promised, they were already well known in the community. Squibs, as a rule, tended to be very accepting people, and once Andrea made it known to a select few that the Camerons—now the Andersons—were in need of both education and cover, the neighbors were only too happy to help, correctly assuming that these were refugees from You-Know-Who's domain. It didn't hurt at all that, as Meli discovered, many of those neighbors were Andrea's friends and relatives; her cause became immediately theirs.

As predicted, the Camerons were adaptable to a setting that, while not wholly magical, was still not at all Muggle. There was an awkward moment when Scott's younger son Daniel ran in to show his parents the neighbor girl's talking chessmen, but after weathering a few minutes of the white knight's incessant dueling challenges, the family took a collective deep breath and moved on, much to Meli's relief and Andrea's delight.

Ordinarily, Meli would have been just as amused as Andrea was at the process of adaptation, but she now lived in fear of discovery. Sooner or later, one of the Camerons was bound to start asking questions of her, many of which she didn't want to answer or even think about.

It was Mrs. Cameron who finally broached the subject when she found Meli waiting out a nasty bout of insomnia at the kitchen table their second morning there. If the older woman suspected the other's anxiety, she didn't show it; instead, she brewed a pot of chamomile tea and set a cup of it in front of Meli.

"Nice and strong," Mrs. Cameron said. "Not a grain of sugar to it."

Meli managed a smile and took a sip. As promised, the tea was dark, almost a caution yellow, and free of any trace of sweetness. "Thank you."

Mrs. Cameron smiled. "We're living at the edge of a completely different world now, aren't we? A world that's always been there, but we never knew about it." She caught the younger woman's eye. "It's your world, isn't it, Meli."

Meli met Mrs. Cameron's eye, and saw neither accusation nor resentment; there was only curiosity and wonder. "I don't know that it's necessarily _my_ world," she replied. "It's a world into which I fit with a bit more ease. My own world is rather more narrowly defined."

"Until I saw those chessmen, I never thought to believe magic existed outside of my own imagination." Mrs. Cameron raised her eyebrows. "And it _is_ magic, isn't it?"

Meli nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Squibs grow up in magical communities, but their abilities are limited or nonexistent."

"Are you a Squib?"

She smiled bitterly and shook her head. "No, ma'am. Life might have been a great deal easier if I had been, but I'm a fully capable and trained witch."

Mrs. Cameron blinked in surprise. "A witch?"

"Yes." Meli's smile turned rueful. "A term which has suffered from misapplication and which many have co-opted for unworthy use. Witch is a legitimate rank in the magical community; it's other people who give it a bad name among Muggles. In this community, witches and wizards are always those with abilities and training in magic—nothing more or less."

Mrs. Cameron was silent a moment as she seemed to weigh her next words carefully. "And are there evil witches as well as good?"

"Anything used improperly or with wrong motives can manifest as evil," Meli answered. "There are evil accountants as well as good, if you take my meaning. There are those who use magic as a means of power and dominance and the forwarding of their own ambitions, with no consideration for right and wrong; yes, they're evil."

"And Lizzy… she and John and little Meli… they weren't killed as part of a ritual…were they."

Meli consciously maintained her cool mask, but fear prickled at her stomach. "I don't know that I'd say that," she replied carefully. "Power is something like a religion for practitioners of the Dark Arts; this killing was _very_ ritualistic. There's a battle waging between those practitioners and those of us who oppose them. Their leader ordered Elizabeth's death." Meli forced some semblance of steadiness into her voice. "He delights in seeing others suffer—that's power to him."

"You've met him."

Meli swallowed, echoes of pain sounding hollowly through her bones. "Long ago," she said. "He is not a… pleasant… man."

"You fight him?"

Something caught in her throat, delaying her answer, but at last she shook her head. "Not directly—I can't. A peculiar set of circumstances makes that an unwise course, but there are plenty of other ways of opposing him. I've been invited to interview for a position teaching students who will fight him directly."

Mrs. Cameron regarded her silently for a time then said gently, "Your grandfather was one of his friends, wasn't he?"

Meli stared at her and actually laughed out loud in surprise. "I suppose I've made it easy enough for you to conclude that, haven't I?"

"Well, there have been some clues left lying," Mrs. Cameron allowed, smiling briefly. She was silent a long time before pointedly changing the subject. "How long can you stay with us?"

Meli bit her lip. "I still haven't interviewed," she answered. "I hope to do that by the end of this week. Even if the headmaster clears me to teach, I still need the board of governors' approval. That'll take time—I don't know how much."

"As long as you're here at least one more day." Mrs. Cameron smiled knowingly. "A house is not a home until there's lemon curd in the refrigerator, and I fully intend to see to that today. Wherever you end up going from here, you'll have a jar with you."

Meli smiled faintly. "Oh, Mrs. Cameron," she sighed. "I do hope I can somehow repay your kindness as you deserve. Until now, I've brought you only grief."

"How's that?" Mrs. Cameron asked skeptically. "Did _you_ kill Elizabeth, or John, or little Meli?" Her eyes narrowed a touch. "Did _you_ kill Andrew?"

Meli couldn't keep her own eyes from widening. "Andrew?" she echoed, sliding into her Slytherin innocence with practiced ease. "I don't understand."

"You've always acted more as if he'd been murdered," Mrs. Cameron said. "I don't ask you to tell me how he died…" Her eyes were solemn. "But I do ask you not to blame yourself. None of us has ever blamed you, and we all saw that you tried to prevent it." She patted Meli's hand. "However you do battle, fight hard and fight well, Meli. When people exert themselves for the cause of good, evil can only be driven back and defeated."

_She knows_, Meli thought, simultaneously frightened and relieved. _She can have no idea of the method, but she knows it was a Death Eater that killed him._

**JUNE 1986, JUST AFTER SEVENTH YEAR  
**Jane Cameron had known somehow that her son would not return to her alive. She never knew if it was intuition or something else—some dark, brooding, unnamed thing—but something told her truly that, if Andrew left that night, he would turn up dead by morning.

It started with a fight and rapidly degenerated from there. Elizabeth and Andrew stood side by side in the living room, she waiting for her fiancé to pick her up, he straightening his tie, both shouting at each other at the tops of their lungs.

Mrs. Cameron rarely raised her voice, but she did now. "_What_ is the meaning of this!"

Andrew clamped his mouth shut, but Elizabeth whirled to face her mother, cheeks flushed and eyes flashing with anger. "Andrew's got a ring in his pocket!" she snapped. "He's taking Meli to a restaurant he _really_ can't afford, and _he's got a bloody ring in his pocket!_"

Her stomach had twisted with eerie certainty even then, but she had forced herself to remain calm as she turned to her son. "Is this true?"

"And what if it is?" Andrew retorted, his voice surly. "It's my money and my life, thanks."

"Why do you think Meli has started to keep her distance from you?" Mrs. Cameron asked. "She hasn't any interest in marriage, Andrew—at least not at this point in time—"

"And certainly never to you!" Elizabeth interjected.

"And you've been forcing the issue," Mrs. Cameron finished, ignoring the outburst.

"Ask him how he got her to go to dinner with him tonight," Elizabeth growled.

"None of your bloody business!" Andrew hollered.

"He said we were all going!" Elizabeth shouted. "All of us! That it's a special graduation present for her!"

"Shut up!"

Elizabeth slapped him soundly across the face. "How dare you!" she hissed. "She's told you her reasons, but will you listen? No! You're too bent on changing her mind! You'd stand a better chance of convincing her to eat a sugar cube, you myopic son of a—"

"That's _enough_!" Mrs. Cameron cut her off. She bored through Andrew with her eyes while Elizabeth stood seething. "Andrew, what do you really hope to accomplish by doing this?"

He looked defiantly at her. "I honestly believe she'll say yes," he replied sullenly. He ignored his sister's derisive laugh. "I think Meli loves me, but she's afraid to make a move. She's afraid of her past—afraid of someone actually knowing her."

Mrs. Cameron tried to keep her tone gentle, but sure knowledge of his folly hardened it. "She has good reason to fear her past, Andrew," she said. "You saw what happened to her parents. She's trying to protect you—to protect all of us."

"Well, then, she'll tell me as much at dinner, won't she?" he sniffed, then pushed past her and walked out of the house.

The next time she saw him, he lay dead in the hospital, a hysterical Meli hovering nearby. Mrs. Cameron never questioned the ring on Meli's finger, but both she and Elizabeth had understood its true meaning and had taken its warning to heart.

**PRESENT: JUNE  
**When at last Meli allowed herself to rest, she had been awake and at work for over three days. She lay on the couch in the Camerons' new living room, buried her head under a borrowed pillow, and tried to remember how to cry. Mrs. Cameron had cut her to the heart during their talk, mostly because everything she'd said was true—and none of it should be.

She knew that none of them blamed her for Andrew's death, and that they didn't blame her for the Goldens' deaths. Having learned so much about her and her world, they could understand perfectly why she'd been hesitant to speak to Muggles about it, even why she had thought that they, as Muggles, would be safe. No one could help but regret that she hadn't spoken up…yet no one held it against her.

Unfortunately, Meli couldn't escape her culpability in the matter.

She remembered a reading assigned to her at university—an excerpt from W. K. Clifford's _Ethics of Belief_—in which Clifford had described a hypothetical ship owner's plight. The owner had a ship that was in ill repair; it had weathered many voyages and was in need of a complete overhaul. Friends had expressed intelligent concerns about the vessel's seaworthiness—or lack thereof. Nevertheless, when a group of emigrants asked to use the ship for a voyage, he agreed, reasoning that the ship had made many such voyages without problems, and he trusted in Providence to care for the ship and the people aboard.

The ship was unsafe, though. It sank, and all aboard it drowned. The ship owner, having placed it in Providence's care, let Providence take the blame and collected his insurance money without a single pang of conscience.

Meli, in the same way, had known the potential for disaster. She had seen what the Death Eaters did to her parents, had known that it could happen again to people she valued. Even when Narcissa had killed Andrew, she had silenced her fears with the hope that the Malfoys couldn't possibly trace him to his family. She had hoped that the fact that the Camerons were Muggles would protect them; in a manner of speaking, she had put them in the hands of Providence, without first asking Providence's permission. Even if the Camerons had never been touched, she would not have been innocent; she would only have been not found out.

The ship had sunk; John, Elizabeth, and little Meli had drowned. Meli, unlike the ship owner, could not go on with her life without a shred of guilt. Voldemort had given the order, and his barbaric initiate had pulled the proverbial trigger, but in not speaking up earlier, Meli Ebony and no one else had loaded the gun.

In time, she would have to come to terms with it and forgive herself, but for now she lived with the guilt. To try to rid herself of it so soon—even if that were possible—seemed dishonorable, a cheapening of those deaths.

At last she pulled her head out from under the pillow and stared at the ceiling above her. "God forgive me," she whispered. "I can't."


	5. Zarekael

Chapter 5: Zarekael

**Chapter 5: Zarekael**  
She could have apparated to Hogsmeade and walked to Hogwarts from there, but Meli needed time away from people for reflection and self-composure. The shock of the Goldens' murders had started to wear off, and she needed a thicker veneer than usual to cover over the anger and grief that tore at her even as she battled them.

So instead of apparating, she retrieved her broomstick, DiscMan, CD carrier, and overnight bag and set out for Hogwarts by a more time-consuming means. Her broomstick was a Nimbus-series—faster than she could have wished for under the circumstances, but still a vast improvement over the alternative.

She shrank her bag to a more manageable size and stowed it in her pocket. The rest of the ballast she stuck to her broom handle with duct tape, and then she took off under cover of darkness.

It was a several hours-long trip, with only Linkin Park, Nickelback, P.O.D., and her own thoughts for company, but by the time she came close enough to Hogwarts that her DiscMan would no longer function, Meli felt somewhat fit and ready for human company again. She landed between Hagrid's cottage and the castle's front gates, shrank and stowed her broomstick and its attachments, straightened her robe, and walked toward the school.

Dumbledore, not surprisingly, was waiting for her just inside. He smiled as he greeted her, a well-remembered twinkle in his eyes. "Welcome back, Miss Ebony," he said. "I hope your time away has been enjoyable?"

"Well, ten years is a large chunk to give an accounting for," she replied. "But I think I may honestly say it's been time well spent."

"Please accept my condolences for your recent loss." Some of the twinkle faded, and the headmaster's smile turned more solemn.

"Thank you, sir." She felt that she should say more, but no words came.

Dumbledore led her silently through the corridors to the statue guarding the entrance to his office. "Divinity," he said, and Meli wrinkled her nose. She hated sweets, tolerating only chocolate when it was for medicinal purposes.

They entered the headmaster's office a few minutes afterward, and Meli looked around with some interest. She had only ever been there three times before, and never in any condition to take in her surroundings. The stench of sugar was everywhere, but otherwise the room seemed comfortable enough.

At Dumbledore's bidding, she sat. The headmaster took his seat behind the desk and smiled again. "Did Severus explain to you the particulars of the situation?"

"Some of them, yes," she answered. "I understand that there's a vacancy in need of a teacher, that I'm considered qualified, and that there have been some difficulties with the position before."

"Do you know what sort of difficulties there have been?" The question was asked almost casually, but Dumbledore's eyes had lost their twinkle.

Meli smiled mirthlessly. "I've only heard sensational rumors, sir," she replied. "One Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher is reputed to have been harboring the disembodied Voldemort, another was supposedly a Death Eater impostor." She arched an eyebrow. "I've even heard that one was discovered to be a werewolf. All I know for certain is that Hogwarts has had four Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers in as many years."

Dumbledore nodded wearily. "Everything you've heard is true," he conceded. His eye caught Meli's. "Voldemort has returned, Miss Ebony; I think it safe to say that no one knows it better than you do. Few can be as adept as you at escaping his attention, and even fewer are as capable as you are at opposing him. I need a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who can teach well, who knows the enemy, and who knows what she's about."

Meli weighed her words carefully before replying. "You know my situation, sir. While you need have no fear of my _ever_ joining Voldemort, I have a condition which may impair my ability to teach." She bit her lip. "It may even cause some sensation among the students which would prove… counterproductive… should the nature of my ailment come to light." She hesitated, then added, "Are you sure that my taking this position would be in the best interests of the students?"

"You raise valid concerns," Dumbledore assured her. "However, they are easily handled with a bit of creativity and ingenuity."

She smiled in spite of herself. "Which I take to mean that you and Professor Snape have been plotting."

Dumbledore smiled broadly. "That's one way of putting it. Your impaired ability to teach is, as I have said, a valid concern. However, as we both know, Professor Snape is able and willing to teach in your stead. His apprentice Zarekael already teaches the upper levels in Potions, and he has agreed to take Professor Snape's lower level classes when you are unable to teach.

"As for a sensation among the students…" Dumbledore shrugged. "There we are greatly indebted to the Muggles, who have diagnosed you with an odd form of epilepsy. Students may be confused or temporarily frightened if you have a public seizure—"

"But as we both know, that will rarely happen," Meli finished for him. "And when it does, the Muggles have provided a ready explanation." She thought for a moment then raised inquisitive eyebrows. "And how much else is known about me outside of this room?"

"Aside from Severus, no one knows anything other than your official history."

_Problem,_ Meli thought. _I have _two_ official histories, one of which I would prefer not to be known._ "Any student with Death Eater connections would know me or could unknowingly inform on me to their parents."

"But Death Eaters would hesitate to inform official parties about you," Dumbledore said. "They would have to disclose the means by which they learned about you. And your safety from Voldemort has never been an issue."

"No," she agreed. "I'm worth far more to him alive than dead. My concern in that area is more for anyone who might try to befriend me."

Dumbledore smiled sardonically. "There I believe you'll have very few problems. Your association with Severus Snape and your oft-proven ability to seclude yourself should go a long way toward creating distance between you and others."

"Good," Meli replied firmly. "I've just had it powerfully confirmed that I cannot risk such associations. Voldemort is back; the game is resumed."

ooo

Her interview completed, Meli made her way down to Snape's office. She had no idea whether or not he would be there, but it was worth a try; she had nothing else constructive to do with her time.

As she rounded the last corner leading into the dungeons proper, she stopped in her tracks, staring. A tall black figure seemed to have materialized out of nowhere in front of her. The apparition had longish, wavy black hair, a dark Mephistophelean beard, pointed ears, and inhumanly ice blue eyes. Except for his eyes, his ears, and his unusual height (she judged him for seven feet tall at least), as well as something subtly _other_ about him, he might have been human. He wore somber black robes of a distinguished cut and an expression similar to what Meli might have attributed to mild amusement if Snape had worn it.

"Welcome to the dungeons," he said dryly, the words brushed by an accent she couldn't immediately identify. "You seem to have lost yourself."

Meli smiled coolly. "No, I'm actually looking for Professor Snape, and I thought he might be down here." She paused, smirking slightly. "Though I do thank you for your welcome."

He was most definitely amused now, but like Snape, he didn't seem the type to smile often. "If you seek Professor Snape, you're going in the right direction. I am Zarekael, his apprentice." He bowed slightly.

Meli nodded acknowledgment, feeling unusually formal in Zarekael's presence. "I'm pleased to meet you," she said. "My name is Meli Ebony. I'm interviewing today."

Zarekael showed no visible reaction, but she had the impression that he stiffened, and he no longer seemed amused. He eyed her more keenly now, and she wondered warily what it meant. He let silence reign for a beat, then said, "Professor Snape is in his office."

As she stepped past him, an odd sensation crept up and down Meli's spine. She frowned. Only around Snape had she ever had a similar feeling, and, except for a remarkable similarity in demeanor, she could find no explanatory parallel between Zarekael and Snape.

_Or Tinúviel_, she reminded herself. _Tinúviel Everett and Severus Snape… and now Zarekael._ She shook her head slightly and filed the odd fact away for future reference.

ooo

The Potions master was indeed in his office beyond the classroom. Before she could knock, he looked up from his desk and stood immediately to greet her.

"Come in, Miss Ebony," he said. "I thought I heard a lighter tread than Zarekael's."

Meli smiled wryly. "Yes. I met Zarekael out in the corridor." She raised her eyebrows. "He seems to recognize my name."

One corner of Snape's mouth turned upward slightly. "Your reputation has preceded you," he replied, though with an odd note to his voice. "The Weasley twins have their aspirations, but they'll never surpass the Skulkers."

"Weasley, eh?" She shook her head. "No group of pranksters without at least one Slytherin or Ravenclaw ever could. If these twins fit their family mold, they're solid Gryffindors."

Snape nodded. "Through and through." He motioned for her to take a seat, then, after she had done so, resumed his own chair. "Have you interviewed yet?"

"Just finished."

"And?"

She smiled ruefully. "And the idea is beginning to grow on me. I would like nothing better than to take the fight to Voldemort personally, but since that's not possible at this time, the next best thing seems to be equipping those who _will_ fight him."

"I doubt the Dark Lord would much appreciate hearing you say so," Snape observed dryly.

Meli shrugged, but smiled dangerously. "In that case, it'll be a double pleasure. It _will_ be a bit odd to be your colleague, though, sir—even now I still think of you as my teacher."

"You're very adaptable, Miss Ebony. I'm sure you'll make the adjustment, possibly even before I do." Now Snape developed a subtle smile—not one that most of his students would think of as a smile, but a clearly pleasant and amused expression nonetheless. "But in any case, it's probably time you made the transition to first-name basis."

It was a _very_ odd transition to even think of him by a name other than _Professor Snape_. She could only imagine the look on her face as she said, "Well, sir, if you would call me Meli, I suppose it would be a fair trade to call you Severus."

He nodded, the motion more like a bow from the neck than an actual nod. "Very well, _Meli_."

She raised her eyebrows, took a deep breath, and said in return, "Very well, _Severus_."

The sound of footsteps in the classroom drew her attention to the doorway, and she saw Zarekael making his way across to Snape's office. He paused at the door.

"Come in, Zarekael," Snape said. "I understand you've already met Meli."

Zarekael's amusement returned. "Briefly, yes."

Snape caught Meli's eye. "Zarekael arrived a year after you graduated. He was placed in my charge while he received his education, and since then I've been training him as my apprentice."

Meli smiled. "You must have a great skill with potions," she said to Zarekael. "Prof—er, _Severus_—doesn't take on just anyone, I'd wager."

"He took me on," Zarekael replied with a shrug. "More than that I couldn't say."

Silence hung in the air for a moment. Meli, the first to be bothered by it, cleared her throat and said, "Well, it'll be nice to be living among magical folk again."

A flicker of curiosity flitted through Zarekael's eyes. "You've lived among Muggles?"

Meli shrugged. "A bit," she conceded. "A few years. Have you never been among Muggles?"

"Never," Zarekael replied. "I've taken Muggle Studies… but I've never met an actual Muggle."

Meli smiled faintly. "They're a fascinating lot. Best taken in small doses unless necessity dictates otherwise—much like Hufflepuffs."

"What do you like most about Muggles?" Zarekael asked.

"Their music," she answered promptly. "I don't know which I'll miss more while I'm here: System of a Down or Enya."

Zarekael gave her a blank look, but Snape just shook his head.

ooo

Having had a pleasant chat with the Head of Slytherin House, Meli thought that it might be politic (as well as potentially informative) to have tea with the other three Heads of House while she was in the neighborhood and before the board of governors arrived. As much as she despised schmoozing, she had to admit that it was a great way to win over potential allies. She was only slightly acquainted with Flitwick, but as a student she'd had several run-ins with both McGonagall and Sprout. McGonagall, though she was Meli's Head of House, had been often mystified and flummoxed by her, and she had administered a large percentage of Meli's many detentions.

Hogwarts' newest teacher (as everyone but the governors already considered her) believed that it might be best to have one tea with all three at once and have it over with; things could get a bit hairy with McGonagall and/or Sprout, but Flitwick, she suspected would make a splendid buffer should the need arise.

To her partial disappointment but greater relief, she was unable to invite Professor Sprout because she was unable to _find_ her. She actually had a sneaking suspicion that Sprout was making an especial effort to stay out of the former Skulker's way. Given her open disdain for both Hufflepuff and Herbology, Meli wasn't surprised… but she _was_ relieved.

So it was that Meli found herself pouring out tea for two people she barely knew on an otherwise uneventful Saturday afternoon. McGonagall sat primly in a wing-backed chair, while Flitwick perched atop a stack of reference books his hostess had thoughtfully piled on an identical chair, with a pillow topmost. In an effort to be more than usually hospitable, Meli had even arranged for a sugar bowl and biscuits, though the smell of them sent a typhoon through her stomach.

"So, Miss Ebony," Flitwick began, after a sip of tea so loaded with sugar that Meli wondered if it was even liquid anymore. "Are you looking forward to teaching here?"

Meli nodded. "I admit, it'll be a bit odd at first," she replied. "But I greatly look forward to helping make a difference. The subjects I taught at the Muggle school in Surrey seem rather less critical in the grander scheme, particularly now." She took a sip of thoroughly unsweetened tea. "I notice I'm not the only new teacher to come on lately."

"There have been a few changes since you graduated," McGonagall confirmed. "Hagrid now teaches Care of Magical Creatures."

"A position after his own heart, I don't doubt," Meli remarked with a smile.

McGonagall also smiled. "Oh, yes. He loves it, and most of the students enjoy learning from him."

_Translation: He hasn't been received well by a number of malcontented Slytherins and possibly a handful of Ravenclaw sticklers._ Aloud, she said, "I'm glad to hear it."

"And, of course, there's Zarekael," Flitwick added. "I don't believe you and he were students together here?"

"No," Meli replied. "According to Professor Snape, Zarekael came a year after I graduated. Beyond that, I know very little about him."

Flitwick set his cup in the saucer he held neatly under his chin. "You haven't heard the story of Zarekael's arrival?" he squeaked. Meli couldn't tell if his high pitch was due to surprise, excitement, or some combination of both.

"Er, no," she answered politely. "Is it a very unusual story?"

"Rather," McGonagall said dryly, rescuing Flitwick's cup and saucer as he toppled from his seat.

While McGonagall saw to the china, Meli saw to her guest, retrieving him from the floor and placing him carefully back on his pillow.

"Oh, thank you, Miss Ebony," Flitwick beamed, dusting off his robes and reclaiming his tea. "I do become a little fluttery when there's an exciting story to tell."

She smiled. "That's perfectly understandable. I must admit, you've piqued my curiosity."

"I assure you, Miss Ebony," McGonagall said, "it's the most exciting event involving Zarekael that you're likely to hear about."

"Oh, but don't forget Aliana Rosewood," Flitwick chided. "His time here hadn't been entirely uneventful."

"Be that as it may," McGonagall sighed, "the tale of his arrival is the most remarkable thing about him."

Meli cleared her throat and raised her eyebrows. "So how _did_ he arrive?"

McGonagall composed herself first. "Actually, it was his _father's_ arrival," she specified briskly. "Zarekael came afterward, in a much less dramatic fashion."

"How did his _father_ arrive, then?" Meli sighed.

"On a _dragon_!" Flitwick squealed, and McGonagall held out a cautionary hand to catch his cup and saucer again. The Charms teacher reoriented himself just in time to prevent another topple.

"On some sort of large creature," McGonagall corrected. "It was very dark; only Albus and Severus came close enough to see what it was, and neither of them has seen the need to speak of it."

"So he came at night."

McGonagall nodded. "In the dead of night, and something about his coming set off the Dark magic alarms, so he had quite the reception, as you can imagine."

"Armed teachers on the ramparts and Dumbledore at the gates?"

"And Hagrid behind him with a crossbow," McGonagall added dryly. "Albus and Severus had a long talk with him, though, and determined that he wasn't a threat."

Flitwick was getting worked-up again; he was actually bouncing up and down on his pillow, the teacup remaining miraculously still in spite of ample provocation to do otherwise. "And the most exciting part of it is _why_ he came."

"I see…" She didn't, but that really wasn't unexpected, given the strange course this conversation had already taken.

"Zarekael came from a different world through a portal," McGonagall explained patiently. "Apparently all of his people are magical; there are no Muggles. There's a civil war raging there that endangered him, so his father arranged for him to be brought here, educated, and protected."

_Interesting._ "How old was he?" Meli inquired. "Why was he in danger?"

"He was eleven," Flitwick answered. "Just the right age. And he was in danger because he's the firstborn son in one of the ruling houses."

"Ah." _And in a civil war, rulers and their families become prime targets._

McGonagall finished her tea and set down her cup and saucer. "Zarekael's father arranged for him to be placed in Severus' care. Then he brought Zarekael to Hogwarts and tried to return to his realm."

"Tried?" Meli echoed.

The other woman nodded soberly. "The gateway collapsed while he was in it. He's presumed dead. In any case, the gateway can't be rebuilt, so Zarekael is stranded here."

Meli raised her eyebrows in sympathy. "The poor boy," she said softly. "Did he and Professor Snape get on fairly well?"

"They must have done," McGonagall answered. "Severus formally adopted him."

Meli's eyebrows hovered just below her widow's peak. Snape wasn't exactly a family man; for him to have agreed to serve as Zarekael's temporary guardian was unusual and unexpected. To _consider_ a formal adoption, much less go through with one, he must have hit it off _very_ well with his foster son.

_Actually, whether he adopted Zarekael or not, Snape—Severus, that is—must get on quite well with him to be willing to take him on as an apprentice._

She allowed the subject to drop, instead offering to refill her guests' cups. Both accepted, and the three of them sipped in silence for a moment before McGonagall introduced a new topic.

"I understand you've lived among Muggles ever since leaving Hogwarts," she said. "How have you liked it?"

Meli smiled as Flitwick perked up at the question. "Once I made the cultural adjustment," she replied, "I found it agreeable enough. It helped that I wasn't completely immersed right away; my roommate at university turned out to be a witch, as well."

"Indeed!" Flitwick exclaimed, leaning forward with interest.

"Indeed," Meli confirmed, deadpan. "She was American, and I'd taken Muggle Studies, so she helped me to adjust to America, and I helped her to adjust to Muggles." She smiled, remembering. "We had some wonderful adventures playing Muggle."

McGonagall raised her eyebrows. "I'm almost afraid to inquire."

"Well, there was one escapade that I would venture to call more amusing than alarming."

"Then by all means, share it with us," Flitwick said, beaming in anticipation.

Meli set down her teacup. "It all started when Andrea and I researched Muggle sports to find a substitute for quidditch to tide us over until we could rejoin the magical community. Andrea found a splendid sport called hockey, and after carefully following it for some time, we settled on a favorite team and resolved to see them play on home ice before we graduated." She cleared her throat and offered Flitwick and McGonagall a sheepish look. "Unfortunately, our team of choice was the Pittsburgh Penguins, and we attended university in Denver, Colorado. The achievement of our goal required us to travel… oh, two-thirds to three-quarters of the way across the country." She shrugged. "We hadn't the money to fly, and it would defeat the purpose to apparate or go on broomstick, so we loaded up my car and took a week-long road trip."

"And how long were you in Pittsburgh?" McGonagall inquired wryly.

Meli smiled ruefully. "About seven hours," she answered. "We had dinner, saw the game, then turned around and drove home." She brightened. "But the Penguins won, and something happened on the way home to make it even more memorable.

"We made it most of the way back. We'd stopped in Ogallala, Nebraska, for lunch and to change drivers, and then as we were pulling out of the parking lot, Andrea noticed that the coolant light was on.

"Fortunately, there was a petrol station across the road, so we pulled in there. I bought a jug of coolant, which turned out to be the wrong kind. My car required a specific brand, which, naturally, that station didn't sell. Andrea, however, did a marvelous job of playing the poor stranded female, and consequently obtained directions to a nearby truck stop.

"The truck stop didn't sell the proper coolant, either, but the mechanic examined the tank, to see if he could determine the problem. He looked at it and said that the cap had been on too loose; he pointed out evidence of boil-off, which Andrea and I found perfectly…hm." Meli searched for the right word. "Charming."

Something about her word choice struck Flitwick's funny bone. McGonagall again rescued his cup and saucer as he laughed so hard that he fell from his perch. Meli traded amused looks with her former Head of House then stood to retrieve the furiously giggling Flitwick. Once he calmed down enough that he could maintain his seat again, Meli returned him to his place, and McGonagall handed back his tea.

"Oh, do go on," he chortled. "I'm quite enjoying the tale."

Meli looked to McGonagall, received an affirmative nod, and did as bidden. "The mechanic informed us that we could buy the proper coolant at the local Chevrolet dealership, and then he proceeded to give us the most convoluted possible directions to the place. Fortunately, Andrea was driving, and she'd managed to make some sense of what he'd said. We found the dealership with relatively little trouble, arriving right in the middle of the lunch hour—meaning that almost no one was there.

"One of the managers was still at work, so we were able to buy the coolant with no problem. Unfortunately, he thought Andrea and I actually _were_ helplessly stranded females and asked if we needed help filling the coolant tank. Andrea's patience was worn down to nothing, so she stood with her hands on her hips and gave a snarky little speech to make Professor Snape proud." Meli smirked. "The manager in question was silenced, so we went back out to the car.

"Once we'd filled the tank, though, the light was still on. After some frustrating speculation, I remembered hearing a Muggle classmate say that there's a switch connected to each system in the car that can only be turned off by a mechanic.

"So we waited for a mechanic. Once we explained our plight to _him_, he was only too happy to help. He came outside with a tool nearly the size of a beater's club, popped the bonnet, and whacked the bottom of the coolant tank a couple of times. Then he closed the bonnet again, checked the coolant light, and sent us on our way."

She sighed dramatically. "And _that_ is how we came to know far more about Muggle machinery than we ever wanted to. Give me a broomstick over that nightmare any day!"

Even the reserved McGonagall smiled at that conclusion. Once again, a subject was allowed to drop, and this time Meli saw fit to bring up a new topic.

"So," she said after a sip of tea, "has Hogwarts seen any major adventures since the departure of the Skulkers?"

The Heads of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw exchanged knowing looks. "The Skulkers' record has never been surpassed, if that's your concern," Flitwick assured her. "Though the Weasley twins do provide some entertainment now and then."

"Do they."

"Yes," McGonagall replied. "Although it's generally agreed that their failures are far more amusing than their successes."

Meli raised her eyebrows. "They've had more than one failed prank?"_ Silly gooses, you'd think they'd have learnt the first time!_

Flitwick had neatly deposited his cup and saucer on the table as soon as the Weasleys had come up—a wise precaution; he chuckled quietly, but the force of his laughter once more endangered his precarious perch. "Oh, yes," he told her. "Their first was perhaps their most memorable, but it's been followed by others."

"Oh, dear," Meli sighed. "Now you've intrigued me. The story of a memorable failed prank ought to be shared—as a warning and a public service to all enterprising pranksters past and present."

"Oh, it was quite the spectacular failure." Flitwick lapsed into a full-out laughing fit, leaving McGonagall to narrate, which she obligingly did.

"No one is quite sure who their intended target was," she began, coming close to grinning. "They set a trap where the Potions and Slytherin corridors cross, so they may have been trying to trap a Slytherin, or they might possibly have been after Severus."

Meli's eyes were widened in horror. "And they were how old?"

"They were first years."

"No one can accuse them of lacking ambition," Meli said numbly.

"Certainly not," McGonagall agreed. "They set up a number of movement-activated dung bomb launchers, all aimed at approximately the same spot. It's possible that they planned to set up a stasis charm there, as well, but no one knows if they tried or succeeded; they were caught. Whoever caught them _did_ set up a stasis charm, put them in the trap, and left them to be found just before breakfast the following morning."

Meli shook her head wonderingly. "By whom?"

"Severus and most of the Slytherins found them at about the same time," Flitwick hooted, his feet kicking because he was laughing so hard. "They were in detention for a week afterward!"

"Good _night_," Meli sighed, laughing a little herself. "Who caught them in the act?"

McGonagall shrugged. "No one outside of Slytherin knows for certain. You might try asking Zarekael. He was a Slytherin at the time, and he was probably there when they were found. If you cite…"—she pursed her lips thoughtfully—"professional interest, he may part with a name. Provided he knows it, of course."

_Zarekael again… Well, why pass up a chance to probe?_ "What was Zarekael like as a student?" she asked aloud. "Is he the sort who would know anything about it?"

Flitwick had slowly brought his mirth under control, and now he looked very shrewdly at her. "I believe people would be very surprised at what Zarekael knows," he said seriously. "He's the quiet sort and always has been—not surprising, given that he's a war orphan—but I think he sees and hears a great deal that he never says anything about."

"Was he quiet because he's reserved, or because he's aloof?"

"Reserved," McGonagall answered promptly. "Zarekael has never been anything but kind and polite. In all honesty, I don't believe he was given a fair chance. Most of the students tend to distrust Slytherins anyway, and he had against him the additional strikes of being Severus' son and being quiet and brooding. Very few people expected anything good of him, even though he did nothing to deserve their distrust."

"He only acted out once," Flitwick added. "And that was still honorable on his part."

Meli raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

"When Zarekael was a sixth year," he replied, "Professor Lockhart—the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher that year—arranged a Valentine's Day dance."

"Only one more in a series of ridiculously stupid things he did during his far too-long time here," McGonagall growled through gritted teeth. "I still fear for the future of our civilization with such idiocy running amuck, particularly in the educational system." She looked shrewdly to Meli. "Knowing what I know of you, Miss Ebony, I can say with utter confidence that, even if you made the effort to do so, you could not come _close_ to being as useless and imbecilic as he was."

Meli blinked in surprise, both at the older witch's bitterness against Lockhart and at the compliment. She had always secretly suspected that McGonagall had looked at her and her friends as a sure omen of the downfall of Western wizarding civilization amid a storm of banana-cream pies and seltzer water.

"I'm glad to have earned your confidence," she stammered politely.

McGonagall smiled sincerely then glanced at Flitwick. "I do apologize for interrupting," she said briskly. "Please, go on—you had just got to the Valentine's Day dance, I believe."

Flitwick offered her an understanding smirk; apparently Lockhart was still a fairly common topic of irritated conversation. "A fifth year Ravenclaw, Miss Aliana Rosewood, had gone with Zarekael to a Valentine's Day dance two years earlier," he continued, "which had exposed her to some ridicule within Ravenclaw House." Flitwick's usually merry face puckered in disgust, possibly in condemnation of his own students' behavior. "This later dance reintroduced the subject. As I understand it, Miss Rosewood was heckled to the point of tears by a fellow Ravenclaw, and Zarekael happened to be passing that way." The Charms teacher smiled in cold satisfaction. "He silenced the culprit with a well-aimed fist."

Meli narrowed her eyes. "Were points taken from or given to Slytherin?"

"Taken," McGonagall replied regretfully. "Although no one was very enthusiastic about it, he had to be punished for hitting another student."

"Zarekael also served detention with me," Flitwick added. "I believe I was rather kinder to him than Severus was to the other gentleman involved in the incident."

"Oh, my," Meli said, shaking her head. A stray thought suddenly clicked. "Wait a minute—Zarekael took a girl to a dance?" She frowned. "He doesn't seem the type."

McGonagall raised her eyebrows. "No, he's not, actually," she replied. "He and Miss Rosewood were friends, nothing more."

"And he appears to be a very good sort of friend, defending her that way."

Flitwick nodded. "Who says only Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs can be loyal? There's honor in all of the Houses, I believe."


	6. Professor Ebony

****

Chapter 6: Professor Ebony

Three days after Meli's interview with Dumbledore, the school governors arrived at Hogwarts to put her through the wringer before approving her to teach. They came with all of the pomp befitting bureaucratic grandeur; consequently, Meli was impatient with the lot of them within an hour, a condition that put her at something of a disadvantage since her grilling didn't begin until the following day.

An indispensable noxious ritual was a formal dinner for the governors' benefit. Every member of Hogwarts' faculty who was at the school at the time was "strongly requested"—a bureaucrat's way of saying "required"—to be present. As a result, a number of teachers suddenly discovered family obligations, and those who didn't (or couldn't) were envious of them.

In the latter category were Snape and Zarekael. Snape had no acknowledged family that Meli knew of, and she strongly suspected that he had no home outside of Hogwarts, although there were rumors that a Snape Manor existed somewhere. Zarekael probably had some family left, but he had no way of communicating with them; Snape was really the only family he had.

Thus, both Snape and Zarekael were present at the dinner, and unless Meli was much mistaken, they were every bit as thrilled with the arrangement as she was. The difference was that they could show their displeasure, while she, as the object of the governors' scrutiny, could not. She took it all philosophically, however, vowing not to let the bureaucrats get the better of her. _This, too, shall pass,_ she thought as she sat down to an arrangement of more forks and spoons than she had seen in her entire life.

Someone in the kitchens was apparently under the mistaken impression that such a high occasion required extra sugar, and Meli cursed that nameless someone in many creative and painful ways in her mind. Her stomach lurched violently as each new course was presented, knowing from the smells that nearly all of it was candied or glazed or otherwise infested with sweetness. Ordinarily, she only dreaded dessert, but this entire meal was a thorough nightmare. By luck, she located the few edible dishes and took a few bites of each to give the appearance that she was not out of sorts, but she saw Dumbledore looking compassionately at her more than once. He knew of her aversion to sweets as well as he knew why this job prospect was so important to her.

The talk was as formal and trifling as any dinner conversation Meli had read in Jane Austen. No matter how well anyone present knew the others, addresses were by title and surname only, and discussion topics largely concerned the weather, the economy, and the accomplishments and connections of the various governors.

Meli, for her part, followed the conversation enough to know its general content, and she participated just enough to pretend that she actually cared, but most of her attention was focused on coming up with more fitting names for each governor present. That silly occupation kept her from letting her stomach from doing as it wished—namely, empty itself into the lap of the governor to her right (whom she had dubbed Mr. Puffin).

It was thanks to Mr. Puffin, however, that she learned something else interesting about Zarekael. In the course of an extended soliloquy on the weather, that worthy gentleman apparently realized that he'd been monopolizing the conversation and decided to include the most silent member of the dinner party.

"So, Apprentice Sel Dar Jerrikhan," he began, but Zarekael cut him off.

"My formal name is Zarekael," he corrected quietly. "Sel Dar Jerrikhan is a title."

Mr. Puffin was a bit taken aback at the rebuff, but he had enough bluster to recover shortly, and Zarekael was obliged to offer his opinions about such fascinating things as average yearly precipitation, barometric pressure, and the effects of humidity on hair. Much to Meli's amused relief, Zarekael kept his responses brief and as much to the point (such as it was) as possible. He was polite enough to give no offense and dignified enough to keep himself somehow above the absurdity of it all.

His correction of Mr. Puffin's error drew her interest, however, and she made a mental note to ask him about it at the earliest opportunity.

After a morning and afternoon of walking Meli over the coals, as with a perverse hope that she would burst into flame, the board of governors declared a three-hour recess to consider their findings; Meli made her way to the dungeons in search of more anti-inflammatory company.

Snape, as she had hoped, was in the Potions room, busily making up some brew whose smell she did not immediately recognize; rather than interrupting him and taking the risk that it was touchy potion, she leaned against one of the worktables until he turned around.

When he did so, it was with an amused countenance. "Good afternoon, Meli," he said sardonically. "You appear to have survived."

"Appearances can be deceiving," she replied dryly. "I feel as though I've spent the day dictating my memoirs to a group of people predisposed to disbelieve every word I say." She shrugged. "Dumbledore seems optimistic . . . but then, this _is_ Dumbledore we're talking about. I don't think he's capable of despondency."

Snape smirked. "Can you think of any reason for them _not_ to approve you?"

Meli stared at him. "_You're_ asking me?" she countered.

"Can you think of any compelling reasons of which they are aware?" he asked again, his eyes glittering. "I _know_ you didn't give them your full autobiography."

_And for very good reason_, she added silently. "None that I know of," she answered aloud.

"Then you have nothing to worry about," he assured her.

Zarekael entered then, sending a series of creeping taps up and down Meli's spine, and walked sedately to join them at the front of the room. "Hello, Meli," he said.

"Hello, Zarekael. How are you this fine day?"

He bowed slightly from the neck. "I'm well," he replied. "And you?"  
"Splendid," she told him. "Thrilled to be in the dungeons."

That comment elicited knowing smirks from both men. "If you would care to extend your stay," Snape offered, "by all means, join Zarekael and me for tea."

"I wouldn't want to impose," she said hastily.

"Father would never have offered if it was an imposition," Zarekael pointed out.

She glanced first at Zarekael, then back at Snape, with hooded eyes. "Very well, then," she said after a moment. "I accept." Abruptly, she smirked, then added, "However, in the presence of two such tall and brooding people, how could I ever think of myself as imposing?"

Zarekael's expression remained impassive, but Snape offered a persevering smirk as reward for that exceptionally terrible pun.

Snape served tea simply, and, Meli noted with satisfaction, without any sugary augmentation. They ate and drank in silence for several minutes, until Meli's earlier curiosity came to mind.

"Zarekael," she said, setting down her tea cup. "There's something I'm curious about. You don't have to say if you'd rather not, of course, but I was wondering about your name."

He arched an eyebrow. "My name?" he repeated.

She nodded. "Last night, someone addressed you as Apprentice Sel Dar Jerrikhan, and you corrected him," she recalled. "Since Sel Dar Jerrikhan does not function as your formal name, I wondered about its actual function."

Both of Zarekael's eyebrows were raised now; Snape just looked amused. The apprentice paused a moment, then replied, "As I said last night, Zarekael is my formal name. Sel Dar Jerrikhan refers to my House; it literally means 'of House Jerrikhan'. In saying Apprentice Sel Dar Jerrikhan, he was referring to everyone in my House who has ever been an apprentice."

"I see." Meli fitted that piece into the slowly-assembling puzzle that was Zarekael. "Do you have an informal name, then, or is it just your formal and House names?"

Snape, who had experienced six years of her temerity as a student, was practically smiling by now; Zarekael, though he maintained conversational balance with the same grace that kept his height from making him awkward, seemed nevertheless thrown slightly off-kilter.

_There will be no tap-dancing 'round subjects with me, I'm afraid,_ Meli thought, smiling inwardly.

Zarekael made a swift recovery, however, and, after fortifying himself with a bite of scone and a sip of tea, he replied, "There are five names. The first is my formal name, and the last is my House name. My second name is known only to family and close friends, my third to my closest friends, and my fourth—should I ever marry—will be known only to my wife."

To judge by his tone, Zarekael had as little interest in marriage as Meli had.

"A good arrangement," she said. "If the owner of the names is not careless with them, such a custom emphasizes the honor of friendship. The way in which English names function makes it far too easy for others to presume a closer acquaintance than actually exists."

"Middle names are not always commonly known," Snape pointed out.

"But they are more easily found out than Zarekael's second, third, or fourth names would seem to be," Meli countered.

Zarekael nodded gravely, but she noticed that there was an odd trace of something unreadable in his look. "Each name has its own meaning," he said. "The more of my names someone knows, the more he knows of me. 'Zarekael' means 'protector of the king'. Few know anything of me beyond that."

To this Meli could formulate no reply, so she nodded and took another sip of tea.

Now that the door had been opened, though, Zarekael decided to step through it. "Do your names have any significant meanings, Meli?" he asked.

She smiled mirthlessly. The names she now bore were free of the dark meanings of those she had borne before, but there was no way to tell him that. "Well," she answered, "'Meli' was not chosen for meaning, so I have never troubled myself to discover one for it. When I was at university, some of my classmates imagined that it must be a diminutive for some high-sounding name, so one of them consulted the book another was reading at the time and christened me 'Elbereth', which means 'star queen', and which was quite high-sounding enough for a group of bored Americans.

"My second name is Ailsa, which means 'island'. I suppose it could be significant since I'm rather a solitary person." Crim had given her that name when she had refused all avoidable human company for weeks following her parents' deaths.

"And 'Ebony', the most misleading of them all, means 'dark strength'." She shrugged, then drank the last of her tea. "I might as easily have been named Oliver Twist."

Snape narrowed his eyes in amusement. "I would hope, Meli, that Bumble would have known enough at least to make it Olivia Twist," he said dryly.

Meli raised her eyebrows in feigned surprise. "Given the IQ level of that worthy sir," she replied, "I wouldn't bet my salary on it." She shook her head. "The man fancied himself a philosopher because he could starve and mistreat paupers and orphans as efficiently as anyone else, and a theologian because he represented a self-righteous entity that called itself the church, but which was in reality no such thing. But name to him Immanuel Kant or David Hume for the philosophers, and Thomas Aquinas or John Piper for the theologians, and the old fool would have no idea that they were men of great thought and accomplishment. He would think each of them was a charity orphan he'd named himself, and would write them off consequently. _There_ lies the true test of one's intelligence—knowing when you know nothing."

Zarekael wisely chose to remain silent. Snape, however, who had heard such talk before, smirked. "I wasn't aware that you now equated tea with detention," he said.

She gave him a hawkish look. "Severus, do you honestly believe that the only time the Skulkers discussed philosophy and literature was during overnight detentions?" she countered. "That was when our arguments made the most _sense_, mind you, but it certainly wasn't the only time the subjects came up." She darted a glance at Zarekael, who was doing a magnificent job of _not_ looking lost, and smiled. "However, afternoon tea is perhaps not the best time to wax eloquent on that subject."

From there the conversation turned to other matters and continued for an enjoyable while until Dobby, the most annoying house elf Meli had ever encountered (and she had met up with quite a few) popped up beside her chair.

"Excuse me, Miss Ebony?" he said.

_He managed a grammatically correct fragment,_ Meli thought in shock. _How monumental!_ Aloud, she answered, "Yes?"

"They is wanting you again now."

Meli stood, made her apologies to Snape and Zarekael, and followed the walking annoyance out of the dungeons. Every step Dobby took elicited either a loud honk from his left sock or a chorus of "Jingle Bells" from his right sock. The socks, made for humans, were too big for him, so Dobby had to stop every dozen or so steps to pull them up again lest he fall. By the time they arrived at the faculty boardroom, Meli was one honk away from wringing the house elf's neck. It was all she could do not to kick him as he honk-Jingle-Bells-ed his way down the corridor after showing her to the door. The board was watching her through the open doorway, though, so she withheld her wrath and once more took comfort in the impassive countenance she habitually wore; it would not do to look irritated or flustered just now.

"Come in, Miss Ebony," intoned the chairman (whom she had dubbed Mr. Wispy the previous evening). She bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment, then stepped quietly into the room. Her thoughts turned once more to Oliver Twist as she stood before the imposing board of governors, each member a self-important statue behind the heavy wooden table.

_No wonder Lucius Malfoy was at home as a governor,_ she thought randomly. _They're almost arrogant enough for _him_!_

Dumbledore stood at the end of the table to her left, his eyes twinkling even now. She took courage at the sight and forced a meek smile.

Mr. Wispy bestowed on her a condescending smile of his own. "It is the decision of the governors," he pronounced, "to approve you as a teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, for a term of one year, at the end of which time we shall review your actions and effectiveness, and, if you show yourself adequate, submit to you a contract for a longer term of service."

Meli nodded once, formally. "Thank you, sir."

"Thank me after you've survived the year," Mr. Wispy advised darkly. "You've applied for and received a post that's rumored to be cursed."

She inclined her head slightly to one side. "Far be it from me to make any attempt at dictating my own destiny," she replied, "but I fully intend to serve as long as I am both able and approved. Whether that period is a fortnight or ten years or something other remains, of course, to be seen. I thank you, however, for the opportunity."

What Mr. Wispy thought of this he did not say, but something like approbation flickered in his countenance for the barest nanosecond.

Snape was not at all surprised when Meli relayed to him the governors' decision; he found it amusing, however, that even the bureaucrats had fallen prey to student superstitions about the Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers.

"If for no other reason than to prove them all wrong, I'm resolved to stay here for at least two years," Meli told him firmly.

Snape smirked. "I doubt any of the last few Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, with the exception of Moody, intended to leave when they did," he countered.

Meli shrugged with feigned flippancy. "Well, I think I stand a better chance than any of them did," she insisted. "I'm not harboring He-Whom-You-Do-Not-Name, I'm not a _complete_ incompetent—or so you've told me, anyway—I'm not a werewolf, and I'm not a Death Eater, in disguise or otherwise."

Snape made no reply; he didn't have to. She knew exactly what he was thinking, and, for all her vocal confidence, she was perfectly aware that there _was_ something about her, that, should it become known, would probably make her another Remus Lupin. 

Fortunately, the chances of it coming to light were considerably slim.

She hoped.

All the while these thoughts passed through her mind, Snape watched her from the corners of his eyes, a shrewd quirk to his mouth.

"I know," she sighed. "Foolish optimism does not become me."

He arched an eyebrow. "That's not at all what I was going to say," he countered smoothly.

"A wise aphorism, then?" she suggested. "Something about how four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie are better than two in the bush?"

"No."

She shrugged helplessly. "Well, what, then?"

Snape held out his hand. "Welcome to Hogwarts," he said simply.

She raised her eyebrows in mild surprise. Snape was not one to shake hands lightly; for that matter, he was not a person who generally _touched_ anyone.

"Thank you, sir—Severus," she answered after a moment, then carefully shook his hand. "I suppose we really _are_ colleagues now, aren't we?"

"So it would seem."

Suddenly, Meli grinned as a new thought occurred to her. Snape remained calm, but he knew her well enough to show the mildest trace of concern.

"You know what this means, of course," she said slowly.

Snape raised his eyebrows inquisitively.

"You can't give me detentions anymore," she answered. "And you can't take points from Gryffindor because of me, either."

Snape smirked, then crossed his arms and leaned back against one of the worktables. "I find more than adequate compensation in the fact that, as a responsible adult, you won't be able to _earn_ either detention or point deductions," he replied. "Moreover, as a responsible adult, it will be your duty to _issue_ detentions and point deductions—to Gryffindor, no less."

"Oh!" Those particular consequences had not occurred to her. _However . . ._ She sighed again, rather theatrically, reminding herself that no one could make her miserable if she did not allow it. "Curses. Foiled again." She abruptly grinned once more. "Then I shall just have to turn my creativity to the responsible adult task of devising thoroughly creative and miserably unbearable detentions."

"A worthy use for it," Snape assured her sardonically.

"I think so." She raised a knowing eyebrow. "Of course, there are precedents to surpass. Cleaning out the detailing on the arches in the Great Hall using only toothbrushes and clear water was a stroke of genius." Her shoulders slumped comically. "How shall I _ever_ top that?"

"I'm sure you'll find a way."

****

WINTER 1983, FIFTH YEAR

They were never told exactly what McGonagall was doing in the Potions classroom that day, but her presence was directly responsible for the Skulkers getting into far more trouble than they would ordinarily have done.

It started with an argument between Anthony Flint and his cauldron partner which necessitated relocating one of them to sit elsewhere in the room to prevent a round of fisticuffs. That resulted in Flint being re-seated at the cauldron next to Crim's, an arrangement which allowed her to observe that he had not been overly careful when grinding his scarab shells. This in turn led her to conclude that Flint was generally unobservant of his grinding, a hypothesis which she wished to test at the earliest possible convenience.

At first she added a few dust particles from the work table, but that struck her as boring and criminally unimaginative. That was how the others came to be involved. Meli was better at Potions than any of the others, so of course _she_ must be consulted; Collum, who was forever fearful of coming up short on some item or of being without something on a critical day, was the Skulkers' walking pharmacy, so naturally _he_ must be involved; and Sharpie, who sat between Crim and the others, was vital as both messenger and courier. Thus Snape later reconstructed it, and thus it actually happened.

That was how Flint ended up adding a ground mixture of scarab shells, porcupine quills, dried tongue of newt, and monkshood to an infusion of wormwood and witch hazel. No sooner had the powder mixed in than the contents of the cauldron exploded into a terrific starburst of color would make any American leap to his feet, hand over heart, and sing "The Star-Spangled Banner".

They might have gotten off scot-free had the Skulkers not made one collective fatal error: They failed to duck for cover when everyone else did.

Only then did Professor McGonagall announce her presence, and though they could never quite make out her words, they most definitely recognized her voice. She marched straight up the aisle between the Slytherin and Gryffindor worktables, her words shrill with reaction as she demanded (they theorized) an explanation.

Meli had known then that the Skulkers were in for it. Ordinarily, Snape would probably have lit into Flint for being inattentive, then taken the Skulkers aside after class for a less public reprimand in which he could also compliment them on their ingenuity.

With another teacher present, however, and that teacher being McGonagall, Snape was obliged to come down on them like a ton of bricks.

He had already glided down the aisle to their worktables, silencing McGonagall with a look of dark reassurance. "I trust there is an explanation for this?" he said coldly, his eyes riveted on Crim.

Crim, well aware of the advanced state of cooking her goose had already undergone, was pale, but she nodded slowly. "I . . . um . . . helped with the . . . grinding?" she suggested.

"The fireworks started out blue, Miss Fell," Snape observed. "Do you regularly carry monkshood with you?"

"Aah—"

"Perhaps you should lay out all of the ingredients you're carrying with you today." Snape's eyes flicked to his left. "Pierce, Miss Ebony, and Fell, why don't you do likewise?"

As the class watched, all four of them emptied their bags, laying out dozens of bottles and pouches, all neatly labeled. Only Collum, who was seated farthest from Crim, had either monkshood or dried tongue of newt.

"I see," Snape said after he had completed his survey. "Very well. Twenty points for each of you removes forty each from Slytherin and Gryffindor. The four of you will join me tonight for detention." His eyes glittered. "I suggest that you do not do this again."

Such a stiff penalty was enough to please even McGonagall, though she was obviously angry that the Skulkers' actions had brought on a dock from Gryffindor as well as Slytherin. She and Snape retreated, and Crim leaned forward to catch the others' eyes.

"Oops."

The Skulkers reported to Snape's office immediately after dinner, their outward manners suggesting a remorseful repentance than none of them felt in the least. It would, however, elicit a better response from the Potions master than if, as Collum had suggested, they arrived whistling "Heigh-Ho". As Meli pointed out, they really were in serious trouble—not for their stunt in class, but for putting Snape on the spot with McGonagall; it would be best, therefore, to keep a low profile until he had gotten that irritation out of his system.

They lined up in front of his desk, studiously looking down at their shoes and waiting for him to make a first move. Snape let them remain that way for several minutes, long enough for Collum to begin squirming, and then he cleared his throat. They looked up to find him watching them with an amused, hawkish countenance.

"This, I take it, is the meek face of the Skulkers?" he said deliberately. "The silent way of saying, 'We who are about to die salute you'?"

"Actually, sir," Meli replied quietly, "we didn't know we were about to die. If you'd like, we can adjust our salutes accordingly.

She ignored the sharp jab Sharpie administered to her ribs.

Snape, for his part, remained amused, much to the relief of all. "Death is not yet a punishment Dumbledore will allow, but should that ever change, you can be sure of proper preparation time for your salute." His amusement faded now, though he remained non-threatening. "The four of you have had all day to contemplate your situation. Can any of you tell me what it is that you did wrong?"

They exchanged puzzled looks, then Collum dutifully cleared his throat. "We tampered with another student's potion, causing an effect which probably hurt his grade and which also could have caused harm or damage. Sir."

Snape gave him a long-suffering look. "Fell, I would like to assure you at this time that I am _not_ Professor McGonagall under the influence of polyjuice potion. I was looking for an _honest_ answer."

Crim snickered, and Collum glared at her.

"Perhaps the correct answer, sir," Sharpie spoke up, "is that we were _caught_."

"We could have gotten a good effect, though not as spectacular, had we used more common ingredients," Meli added. "But we got sloppy and used ingredients that only Collum had, thereby making it clear that all four of us were in on it."

Snape nodded. "But what error brought it all to light first?" he prompted.

"But we wanted to see what it would do!" Crim protested. "You can't do that if you're busy ducking out of the way!"

Snape arched an eyebrow. "Forty points lost and a night of detention don't bother you enough to show more caution?"

She shrugged. "So my Gryffindor tendency took over for a few evil minutes," she sighed. "But detention, in my experience, is _not_ a deterrent, and Slytherin's so far ahead of _everyone_ for the House Cup that a forty point dock is nothing."

Snape's amusement returned. "Four and a half years in Slytherin House have not been sufficient to teach you how to bring your inner Gryffindor to heel?" he said sardonically.

Crim glared at her brother. "Collum's had a bad influence," she replied simply. "Though it could be worse; he _could_ have been a Hufflepuff."

Snape stood and stepped around his desk to join them. "Well, then. Now that you're all back in your normal state, we can dispense with the pleasantries and move on to the punishment."

"We were hoping you'd forgotten about that, sir," Meli said insincerely.

Snape smirked. "With all due respect to your integrity, Miss Ebony," he countered, "I somehow doubt that very much."

He was right to doubt, and they all knew it—though, had he ever before administered a Skulker detention, he would have had grounds for more than mere doubt. The Skulkers were incredibly philosophical when it came to punishment: no one, most certainly no teacher, could force them to hate it. As a group or singly, they had always found a way to enjoy detention.

Thus, when Snape led them to the Great Hall and issued each of them a toothbrush and bucket, no one's heart sank. Even when he informed them that their task was to scrub out the detail moldings on every arch in the hall, he was greeted with cheerful smiles. Shaking his head, Snape watched them get started, and then he made a calculated "error" through which the Skulkers immediately saw: he left the room for ten minutes to retrieve a book.

Had any other teacher done that, the Skulkers would have been in Hogsmeade at the end of that ten minutes. It being Snape, however, they instead remained, partly out of respect for the teacher in question, and partly because they knew that he could—and would—find them.

When Snape re-entered with his book, he found them industriously working while singing the theme from _Gilligan's Island_ in perfect four-part harmony. Once that song was completed, they moved on to "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star", for which they created a number of nonsensical verses on the fly. That kept them thoroughly amused for an hour and a half.

Snape never once spoke, so he was treated to an uninterrupted concert that only the Skulkers could construct as they exhausted their shared repertoire of nonsense songs, many of which had apparently been written by the Skulkers themselves. It began to taper off at about two in the morning, and at that juncture Meli deemed that they were all now sufficiently tired and dense that the conversation could turn from trifles to philosophy.

It did not take long for the switch to elicit a reaction from Snape. In the middle of a heated debate between Crim and Sharpie over what sort of drugs Plotinus must have been on (Sharpie maintained it was barbiturates, while Crim insisted it must have been hallucinogens), he cleared his throat pointedly. The work and words immediately halted, and four sets of eyes fastened onto him.

"Do you always behave this way during detention?" he asked, not entirely masking his amusement.

"When we're allowed to talk, yes," Crim replied. "But usually we have detention with McGonagall, and she makes us write essays, so we're not nearly as vocal."

"We're not at all vocal," Collum corrected. "She gets mad if we talk."

Snape raised his eyebrows. "I can only imagine the content of the essays."

Sharpie shrugged. "Well, we don't exactly write about Plotinus," he said. "Usually the assigned topics are so boring that it takes a lot of effort to drain them of substance and make them presentable." He smirked. "We generally manage it, though."

Snape sighed. "I think you've all had enough detention for one night," he told them, standing up with his book in hand. "Return the buckets and toothbrushes to the Potions room, then you may go to your Houses."

The Skulkers were crestfallen.

"Already?" Meli said, a plaintive note in her voice. "But sir, it's only three in the morning! We should have four hours left!"

She had become an expert in drawing from him mystified expressions, which he now proved. "Then you'll have some extra time to sleep, Miss Ebony," he pointed out.

"But—but—"

"Oh, pull yourself together, Meli," Sharpie called. "We'll get another detention soon enough, don't worry!"

Snape had no need to comment; they all knew he was wondering whether or not to recommend that none of them ever again receive detention. On the one hand, Crim was right: it failed in its function as a deterrent . . . on the other hand, however, who was he to keep his fellow teachers from self-inflicted frustrations?

The latter view plainly won out, for he led the way to the dungeons with a smirk on his face as easily read as the book he still carried.

****

PRESENT: JUNE

One of Meli's first tasks upon moving into her new rooms was the hanging of several poster-flats throughout her quarters. She kept no pictures, either photographs or paintings; the only visual art present was on these flats, in the form of crayon drawings or watercolorings in the background of hand-printed words. Most of the backgrounds were intricate geometric patterns or woven strokes of color; Meli tended to think abstractly, with only rare concepts of images.

The words found on each of these flats differed widely. Some were song lyrics, others were poems; some were humorous, others were pointed. The last flat she hung was placed beside her bathroom mirror, where she could not help but see it each morning and evening, and it was quite thoroughly accusatory.

Robert Burns had probably never foreseen the strange twist that Meli applied to the interpretation of "The Selkirk Grace"; indeed, no sane person could have. In her tormented mind, four lines of simple thanksgiving had become two lines of condemnation followed by two lines of what she considered a fantastical optimism that bordered on willful blindness. She chose to interpret the whole of it symbolically, and actually followed Burns' verse with one of her own, reflecting this interpretation:

__

Some have friends they cannot trust,

And some would trust that lack them,

But I have friends that I can trust;

For this, God's grace, I thank Him.

She did not see God as _un_gracious, per se, but she found His grace in almost every area of her life aside from that of relationships. The few friends she did have were in mortal danger, and as she had seen only too recently, not all were as trustworthy as she might have hoped.

The background of "The Selkirk Grace" was a somber matte black, against which the scarlet lettering seemed to glow like fresh blood. An accusation, yes, but also a reminder that the best way to spare others Elizabeth's fate was to push them far away.

There was hope for the future—in isolation.

****

12 NOVEMBER 1981, THIRD YEAR

Since time was of the essence, Snape had obtained Dumbledore's permission to apparate with Meli to their destination. In order to do that, however, they had first to get out from under the school's anti-apparation wards, which meant a twenty-minute walk toward Hogsmeade.

It was during this time that a disconcerting thought occurred to Meli.

"Professor Snape?"

He turned to look at her. "Yes, Miss Stafford?"

"Will I be able to continue at Hogwarts after this?"

"Is there any reason you should not?" he countered.

She swallowed. "Well, I haven't any magical next of kin who could take me in. My mother's sister works for the Department of Mysteries . . . Whoever does have custody of me may have . . . other plans."

Snape shook his head. "According to Headmaster Dumbledore, _he_ is your legal guardian now. It was one of the provisions in your adoption."

"But my grandparents—they may appeal in the courts."

He stopped walking and turned fully to face her. "Do you believe they would?" he asked quietly. It was not a mocking question, nor even for his own information. He seemed to care more that she came to her own accurate conclusion.

Meli looked down. "No," she admitted. "My father's parents—the Staffords—they don't like me. They thought I was bad luck." She smiled faintly. "And the Ebonys know Dumbledore. They'll trust him."

Snape stood silently, but she could sense that he had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to say or do. With an effort, she mustered a small smile and resumed walking. He picked up his former pace, and it was only a few more minutes until he judged they were free to apparate.

"Sir?" she said, just before they disapparated.

"Yes?"

She looked him directly in the eye. "The only family I have left with the name of Stafford are those grandparents," she told him. "They don't want me, and I don't want them. May I change my name to Ebony?"

Snape didn't smile, exactly, but his expression was not unkind. "I'm sure the headmaster will see to it," he replied, then added, "Miss Ebony."


	7. Errands in Surrey

****

Chapter 7: Errands in Surrey

PRESENT: EARLY JULY

Meli's new position as a teacher of Defense Against the Dark Arts required her to run several errands outside of Hogsmeade and its environs. Some of her shopping could be done on Diagon Alley, but most of what she required (primarily literature and visual aids) could only be found in Muggle shops. Her approach to teaching anything was always a bit odd, but since memory retention was far more important in this class than in any other she had before taught, she was in the process of refining that odd approach into something so eccentric that her students would remember the material whether they wanted to or not. She knew what Voldemort and his cronies were like; teaching defenses against them was not a task that she could, in good conscience, perform shoddily, and job security had nothing whatsoever to do with it.

Thus, in the space of a week following her approval by the governors, she had laid out a month's worth of lesson plans, most of which needed some article or other that could only be obtained from Muggles. On speaking of this to Dumbledore, however, she found that he had been about to speak to her in hopes that she would perform an errand in his behalf.

"I was going to ask you to do it," he told her, "but you've come to me before I could." He smiled, his eyes twinkling. "You have excellent timing, Meli."

"Thank you, sir," she replied. "And I have no objection to running one more errand, provided it has nothing to do with sugar."

"Oh, no," Dumbledore assured her. "Far from it. I should think it more sour than sweet in nature."

Meli arched an eyebrow, intrigued. "Go on."

"I need not tell you, of course, that you are not the only person important to Hogwarts who hails from Surrey," Dumbledore began.

"If you're referring to Harry Potter," Meli replied, "then no, you need not. I taught him for a year in the Muggle school there." She grimaced. "And I've met his miserable relatives a few times," she added, sorely tempted to refer to the Dursleys instead as "They-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named".

Dumbledore, seeming to catch her drift, unspoken though it was, smiled. "And, naturally, as someone who lived with similar protections, you are probably aware that certain precautions have been taken to keep Harry safe even while living with his Muggle relatives."

"Naturally." She did not add that she hoped these protective devices were in effect year-round, even when Harry was at Hogwarts.

_Then again_, she thought, _the Dursleys wouldn't be missed by anyone decent if the Death Eaters should get to them._

She immediately reproached herself for the thought. As miserable of people as the Dursleys were, they were far from deserving a similar fate to that of her parents, and Harry, if deprived of them, would probably still mourn their loss after a fashion.

"Since Voldemort's return," Dumbledore continued, "the security around Harry has been increased. In addition to protective wards around the Dursleys' house, there are now a number of wizards and witches in Little Whinging who have been keeping a constant, silent watch over him."

"Very wise," Meli said. "But since, of course, Harry's own vigilance will be more acute than ever, you have the problem that he may well conclude that he's being followed by the wrong side."

Dumbledore nodded. "That is why someone trusted by both him and his family must speak with him, to tell him that these people are friends."

Meli laughed mirthlessly. "With all due respect, sir, I don't know that the Dursleys _do_ trust me," she warned him. "It was my personal mission to humble—or humiliate, as the case may be—their darling little Dudley at every opportunity."

The headmaster shrugged with a lightness indicative of some darker previous dealings. "I think you'll find that the Dursleys have only the vaguest memory of you," he replied.

Meli darted a narrow, suspicious look at him. "I don't suppose they had help with that," she said in a tone that belied the words.

Dumbledore smiled, but there was some strain to it. "I believe one of Harry's protectors may have taken the liberty," he allowed.

_Only one person I can think of would be so inconsiderate and so brazen . . . _ "Mr. Black, perhaps?" she suggested lightly.

And then she saw something she had never thought to see on Albus Dumbledore's face: surprise. He, a man who gave the appearance of knowing everything because of his wisdom and calculation, had evoked that reaction in nearly every magical person she knew, but she had never once seen it evoked in him.

The disturbingly unfamiliar expression soon—thankfully—faded into one of congratulation. "Very good, Meli," he said after that terrible moment. "Your powers of mental calculation have developed well over time."

She swallowed. "Thank you, sir," she replied, though it hardly seemed appropriate to the rest of the conversation. "It . . . seemed to be something he would do, based upon what I know of him." She cleared her throat and changed the subject. "So, then, I'm to go to Little Whinging, take advantage of my Muggle history with the Dursleys, and by some artful means communicate to Harry the motives of the people following him about."

Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling. "Yes," he replied. "I believe that for someone with your skills, it should not prove too challenging."

"No, sir." She grinned briefly, then added, deadpan, "It will be a pleasure."

There was a knock at the door just then. Dumbledore opened it to admit Snape, who stopped short when he saw that the headmaster was in conference. The other beckoned him to enter, however, and Snape did as he was bidden, standing near the door as Dumbledore closed it behind him.

"I apologize for the intrusion," the Potions master said.

"You're not intruding, Severus," Dumbledore replied thoughtfully. "Tell me, are you still planning to go to Diagon Alley next weekend?"

Snape frowned slightly. "Actually," he answered, "I had just come to inform you that I'll need to go sooner." There was an unamused turn to one corner of his mouth. "In inventorying my supply cabinets, I've discovered several more things missing than I had initially expected."

Meli carefully kept her eyes on Dumbledore's desk. Like Zarekael's history, some things simply became common knowledge if one was at Hogwarts long enough, and often—as in the case of young Crouch robbing Snape's office for Polyjuice ingredients—it was still wisest to feign both ignorance and deafness.

Dumbledore had obviously come to a similar conclusion; he ignored Snape's explanation and addressed only the previous answer. "Would you be willing to go as early as tomorrow?" he inquired.

Snape arched an eyebrow. "I could," he replied cautiously, and Meli could almost hear his silent addition of, _And what, pray tell, are you hoping to rope me into?_

_Oh, no, you don't,_ Meli thought, then protested aloud, "Ah, sir, I really don't require any company." _Certainly not the company of someone whose life could be endangered if he's seen with me._

Snape was every bit as perceptive as she'd remembered. "And are you also going to Diagon Alley, Meli?" he asked.

"And Muggle London, and Muggle Surrey," she replied. "It's a full day trip—you'd be bored out of your mind." She raised her eyebrows at Dumbledore. "And I _can_ take care of myself."

To her surprise, though, Snape looked thoughtful. "It's not a question of you taking care of yourself," he told her. "It _is_ a question of any member of Hogwarts' faculty going abroad alone. It may not draw the Dark Lord's attention . . . but it will certainly draw unwanted and suspicious attention from his enemies."

Meli let out a surprised laugh. "You mean to say that if I go out alone, they'll think I'm up to no good, but if I go out with _you_, they won't?" She smiled wryly. "Forgive me, Severus, but it seems a choice between six and half a dozen."

Snape and Dumbledore exchanged looks that she was not meant to interpret, but which she understood anyway. _He has, indeed, gone back to Voldemort. _ _As if I didn't already know that anyway._

"It may neither help nor harm your reputation," Dumbledore said quietly. "But it can only help Severus' case in these times."

_Because it will look to Voldemort like he's keeping an eye on me, to see who I contact and if they're vulnerable. While being my friend, he can still stay in Voldemort's good graces._

She carefully maintained an impassive expression while these thoughts passed through her mind. Now she sighed her resignation. "All right, we'll make it a joint expedition." She glanced narrowly at Snape. "But I'm not very pleasant company," she warned.

"You forget to whom you're speaking," Snape countered sardonically.

She smirked. "Not at all, but you understand . . . I had to try."

Snape was never early, and he was never late. At precisely seven-thirty the following morning, there was a clear rap at the door. Meli, who had fully expected this, opened the door immediately after his knock, herself ready to go.

"Come in, Severus," she said cordially. "Will you take tea or some toast before we leave?"

Snape entered, shaking his head. "I breakfasted earlier, but thank you." He paused, then raised inquisitive eyebrows. "Will I adequately pass for a Muggle?" he asked sardonically.

Meli smiled. "Well, you do look unusually put out for a Muggle," she replied lightly, "but your clothing checks out."

"Put out?" he echoed.

"You look twice the brooding wizard when you're not in robes," she explained. "Tell me, Severus, have you _ever_ smiled?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Accidents happen," he replied acidly.

"Ah, yes." She snickered. "There _was_ that memorable time in sixth year Potions." She shuddered. "My, what a nasty day _that_ was."

"Meli, are you finished?"

She grinned. "Yes, sir, I believe so."

"Then by all means," he sighed, "let's get this over with."

Their first series of errands took them through London, but eventually the last item on their list drew them to Little Whinging, and Snape's mood took a subtle turn for the worse. On the one hand, Meli could hardly blame him, but on the other hand, moods in general, and Snape's in particular, tended to rub off.

"So," she said quietly, as they walked steadily toward Privet Drive, "will you speak to him, or shall I?"

Snape glanced sidewise at her. "All things considered," he replied dryly, "I think it's best if you did. He and I don't see precisely eye-to-eye."

"Oh, dear," she sighed. "You're that charming, are you?"

"I've never pretended to charm," he reminded her. "Particularly where Gryffindors are concerned."

"Eh, me, neither," she rejoined. "Rather ironic, given where I housed for seven years, but not the less true."

Further conversation was halted as they simultaneously caught sight of a huge black dog pacing the sidewalk. It stopped its pacing when it saw them, and Meli thought it leveled a glare at Snape. She smiled and walked over to the dog, reaching out a hand to pet it.

"Hello, puppy," she crooned. "You're oh, so far away from home, yes you are."

"That dog is nearly as big as you are," Snape replied testily. "It's hardly a puppy."

Meli ignored him. "Have you lost your master?" she asked, still in a maddening baby-talk voice. "Hmm?"

The dog turned its head to look almost behind it to a grocer's store half a block further on. It woofed hoarsely, glared again at Snape, then turned back to Meli.

"Well, I'd take you home," Meli told him, "but I daresay you've got fleas!" She stood, made a show of wiping her hands off, then rejoined Snape, kicking the dog soundly on her way.

Snape looked understandably surprised, but his mouth came dangerously close to a smile. He offered the dog a glare in return, then stepped out beside Meli once more.

"You _do_ realize who that was, don't you?" he asked in an undertone.

Meli looked mildly at him. "You don't honestly believe I'd have kicked anyone else, do you?" she countered. "I rather despise people like him, truth be known. He reminds me of Dirk Pierce."

Snape seemed about to reply, but suddenly stopped again, staring ahead of him. "_What_ is _that_?!" he demanded.

Meli raised her eyebrows. "That is called a store, Severus," she said slowly. "And in that particular store, Muggles buy food."

He favored her with a sour look. "Not that," he hissed, then pointed. "_That_."

She looked where he pointed, then felt her eyes widen incredulously. "It appears to be . . . oh, 

my . . .a giant pig who . . . walks on two feet . . . and wears Muggle clothes. Oh, _dear_. That's got to be Dudley."

"I doubt the grocer will have any food left after he's gone," Snape said, shaking his head. "You _know_ these people?"

"No, thank God," she replied. "I met them a few times and taught Dudley for a year. Nasty family, the Dursleys."

"So what artifices will you use to get into their good graces?" Snape asked darkly.

Meli snorted. "I'm going to take advantage of their natural abysmal stupidity, of course," she answered. "It'll be just like the old days with the Skulkers and Anthony Flint."

Snape merely smirked.

Meli left Snape to ponder produce while she shadowed the Dursleys and Harry Potter for fifteen minutes. At last, though, when chances were minimal that they might think she had followed them in, she waited until they stopped for one of Dudley's frequent tantrums, then slipped into the aisle and artfully contrived to bump into Dudley. Given the fact that his girth spanned three-quarters of the aisle, however, very little art was actually required for it.

Having bumped into him, she now stopped, looked at him carefully, then let spread across her face the broadest smile she had never felt. "Why, if it isn't Dudley Dursley!" she all but gushed. "My, how you've grown—a fit and robust young man if I've ever seen one."

All four of them stared at her, and she had the clear and welcome impression that only Harry remembered her. Still smiling, she turned on Dudley's parents. "And you must be Mr. and Mrs. Dursley," she continued, extending a hand. "Meli Ebony. I had the pleasure of teaching Dudley his last year at primary school."

Dudley still stared stupidly at her, but his parents, every bit as dense in the skull as he, reciprocated her smile now. Mr. Dursley shook her hand firmly, then pompously introduced himself and his wife, then promptly changed the subject to drills. Meli permitted herself a wince, then shouldered her way into the conversation and changed the subject again.

"I know Dudley probably doesn't remember me, but I remember him," she said, still smiling. It was true; since the end of that year, she'd gotten out of practice at verbally abusing abysmally stupid and thuggish students. She sorely missed him.

"I remember you," the fourth member of the group said quietly.

Meli turned to face him and hoped he could forgive her for what she had to do next. "And I most certainly remember you," she said distastefully. "Pothead, is it?"

Dudley sniggered, and though Meli had much rather punch him, she beamed at him, then glared at Harry. "Still making a bad name for yourself, I suppose?" she snapped.

Harry made no reply, but he stared at her with a confusion that was almost comical. Not surprising, really, given that all of her verbal abuse as a teacher had been directed always at Dudley and never at himself. On the contrary, she suspected she had been the only teacher ever to treat him kindly.

"But about Dudley," she continued, beaming again. "How is _he_ getting on in the world?"

Vernon Dursley puffed himself up and started in on a litany of Dudley's trumped-up mediocrities. Meli tuned him out, glad that Snape had preferred the company of bananas and grapefruit; his patience could not have withstood such an assault. Once she judged by Dursley's tone that he was starting to wind down, she tuned back in for the very end of it, in order to jump in at the earliest convenient opportunity.

"Fascinating!" she said exuberantly. "Well done, Dudley!" Dudley swelled pridefully, easily taking over the remaining quarter of the aisle. Meli scowled now. "And this . . . _other_ one," she added. "I suppose _he's_ in a fitting place, as well?"

She delighted in seeing the sickening pallor that challenged Dursley's ruddy complexion. "Er, yes," he stammered.

"He has the look of an incurably criminal boy," she continued appraisingly. "Have you considered enrolling him at St. Brutus'?"

Dursley looked suddenly relieved. "Yes!" he replied. "Yes, he's been there four years already."

Harry, she noticed, was suddenly eyeing her very keenly. "Splendid!" she said. "As it happens, I've some friends who teach there, whom he should meet if he continues there much longer." She leaned in confidentially but still spoke loudly enough for Harry to hear. "There is no taskmaster so strict and unrelenting as Mr. Snape, and if Mrs. McGonagall has not altogether transfigured him by the time he's through her class, he'll be good for nothing short of a hanging."

The Dursleys were all smiling now, and Harry was trying hard not to. As anticipated, he had easily picked up on her verbal code—and his ridiculous relations had not. Meli judged that she had them well enough in hand that she could actually do what she'd come to do.

"Mr. Dursley," she said, "I wonder if I might take Potsherd here aside for a word. I would not hesitate to speak it in front of you, except that I fear it may mortify Mrs. Dursley's delicate sensitivities, and it could well shock poor Dudley so badly as to ruin his appetite." _Which could only improve him,_ she added silently.

Dursley smiled his approval, and she took Harry by the shoulder and led him down the aisle, making her motions look rougher than they actually were. When she judged they were far enough away to be out of even Petunia Dursley's hearing, she stopped and turned to face Harry.

"I apologize for my harsh words in front of those scumsucking lifeforms who call themselves your relatives," she said without preamble. "Unfortunately, such pretenses are necessary in these times. Please believe me when I say I have the highest respect for you."

Harry looked as though he might smile, but he carefully restrained himself. "Do you teach at Hogwarts?" he asked quietly.

"Yes. Now I hope you'll forgive me if I glare at you for the scumsuckers' benefit," she replied, then narrowed her eyes in a look of which Snape would have been proud. Harry actually drew back. "I understand you'll be finishing the summer with the Weasleys. Until you go to their house, and even afterward, you may find yourself surrounded by silent guardians. Dumbledore has seen to your safety. Don't draw attention to them, but know that they are there to protect you."

"I think I've seen some of them," Harry said. "One just today and not too far from here."

Meli smirked. "I know the one you mean." She sobered again. "Now, everything we say must be scripted for the benefit of the curious. I happen to have a script already made up, so you won't have to think up a story."

"All right."

She filled him in, quizzed him quickly, then, with an apology ahead of time, dragged him back to the Dursleys. After more cordialities and another narrow dodge of the subject of drills, she patted Dudley fondly on the head, shoved Harry to the side, shook Vernon and Petunia's hands once more, and excused herself. Before returning to the produce section, she sought out a washroom and spent several minutes disinfecting her hands.

Meli had hoped to take Snape by surprise, perhaps by lobbing an orange at his head, but he was far too vigilant for that. She was barely around the corner before he had joined her.

"Finished comparing apples and oranges?" she quipped as they left the store.

Snape sighed. "It's a terrible pity you're not still a student," he said. "Do you have any idea how many points Gryffindor would have lost just during our errands today?"

"Ooh, I shudder to think!" She grinned. "But I'm sure I'd have found some way to talk you into giving most of them back sooner or later."

"I'm not as lenient as I used to be," Snape told her, punctuating the remark with a kick that sent the still-lurking black dog yelping away.

Meli raised her eyebrows. "Why, Severus, that was positively vindictive of you!"

He glanced at the retreating dog, then looked unconcernedly back to her. "Yes, wasn't it?" he drawled.

"I think I've had a bad influence on you," she sighed, but there was laughter in her eyes.

Harry watched Miss Ebony walk away, rubbing his hands over his arms to brush away chills. He didn't mind her as a person, with the notable exception of her odd, mercurial behavior during this meeting; she was the only teacher from his life before Hogwarts that he remembered with any fondness. However, something about her presence had always set him slightly on-edge. Her approach raised prickles on his arms and the back of his neck, and her countenance, with its vaguely reptilian aura, seemed inexplicably and disturbingly familiar.

Perhaps, he thought now, it was on account of her being magical; he may somehow have sensed it about her, though, if that were the case, she was the only one of whom it was true. He wondered if there was some significance to this.

He had little time to ponder it, however, for as soon as Miss Ebony was out of sight, Uncle Vernon turned on him.

"What did she say to you, boy?" he demanded, leaning his red face in close. "What did _you_ say to _her_?"

"Nothing about Hogwarts, if that's what you mean," Harry lied. "She thinks I'm a perfectly normal incurably criminal boy."

"And what did she tell you?" Uncle Vernon asked again, his eyes still narrowed in suspicion.

"Aren't you worried about Aunt Petunia's delicate sensitivities?" Harry countered coolly.

"Oh, out with it!" Aunt Petunia snapped. "That concern is proper coming from her. _You're_ just being insolent!"

Harry sighed feelingly and made a try at sullenly rolling his eyes. "She told me about a boy who went to St. Brutus' and graduated unrepentant," he grumbled. "He fled England to avoid punishment for his numerous felonies and ended up on a tropical island, where he killed the tribal chief's son. The natives were so outraged that they disemboweled and dismembered him and burned his entrails in front of him, then let him bleed to death. They posted what was left of him to his family as a warning."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!" Uncle Vernon blustered, throwing a nauseating flutter through Harry's stomach. "Better to burn the entrails _before_ you disembowel him—more painful that way! Honestly, Petunia, what are these primitive societies coming to?"

Harry breathed an imperceptible sigh of relief and turned his thoughts to happier things—like spending his birthday far away from the Dursleys.

****

AUTUMN 1990, ONE YEAR BEFORE HARRY'S FIRST YEAR AT HOGWARTS

Dudley had been nastier than usual all day, and even the threat of a thrashing at home seemed less of a deterrent than it normally was. Harry's patience was nearly spent; he was sick of taking it in silence. Miss Ebony's lecture on the Magna Charta faded away from his attention as the maddening prodding of Dudley's pencil in his back persisted.

Pressed to explain afterward, Harry never could say what exactly transpired then. All he knew was that his patience ran out, and the next thing of which he was aware was an impossibly loud crash across the room as Dudley met up none too gently with the wall.

Miss Ebony halted her speech immediately, her eyes finding Harry first, then flicking right away to Dudley, who was too stunned to pick himself up.

"Explain yourself, Dursley!" she snapped, her tone uncompromising and unmerciful.

Dudley was still floundering, unable to explain himself even _to_ himself. "Uuh, Harry—"

"And why should he explain your idiocy?" the teacher demanded. "Or are you proposing that he somehow shoved you across three desks and a bookshelf?" Dudley had no reply for this, either. "Get up at once, you massive git, and trade seats with Miss Carson for the rest of the term." She sneered at him in a manner that Harry would later come to associate with Professor Snape. "And there will not be another incident or another pathetic attempt to blame anyone for it, or you will sincerely wish yourself dead and buried. Is that understood?"

Dudley nodded meekly, at last managing to get to his feet, then, once Miss Ebony's back was turned, glared venomously at Harry. He and Patty Carson traded seats, placing him one row over from Harry and two desks further back.

Miss Ebony, once more her unruffled self, returned to the lecture, leaving Harry to zone out once more in an attempt to figure out how he had managed this latest impossible feat. A few minutes later, the sound of a soft impact shook him from his reverie, and he looked down.

Harry was surprised to see a slip of paper laying suddenly in his open textbook. No one except Miss Ebony had been anywhere nearby since his outburst (as he thought of it) at Dudley ten minutes before, and she had only been by because she habitually paced the aisles as she taught.

He glanced at the paper, then did a double-take and gave it his full attention.

__

Harry,

Please remain for five minutes

after class.

Miss Ebony

He looked up again, surprise evident on his face. Miss Ebony was facing him now, pausing in her pacing to make a point. She saw Harry looking at her, raised her eyebrows mildly, but continued with her lecture as if she hadn't noticed.

Having caught her attention, Harry thought perhaps it would be wise to tune in for at least the last few minutes of class.

"As an odd bit of trivia to file away to impress someone someday, can anyone tell me what American document took at least some of its inspiration from the Magna Charta?" Miss Ebony asked.

Allison Miller, resident know-it-all, raised her hand. "The Constitution," she sniffed.

Miss Ebony looked disdainfully at her. "Miss Miller, if you have nothing intelligent to say," she growled, "I suggest you do our collective IQ a favor and shut up." As Allison wilted in her desk, the teacher looked around again. "Yes, Ellsworth?"

Ricky Ellsworth swallowed. "The Declaration of Independence?" he guessed tremulously.

Miss Ebony nodded. "Very good, Ellsworth," she replied. "You all now know more about that document than the average American public school graduate. Congratulations."

_Then again, maybe it's safer to tune out,_ Harry thought. Miss Ebony wasn't in a particularly foul mood, but there was no sense in getting a head start on the tongue lashing he was doubtless about to receive in—he checked the clock—five minutes. Somehow she knew what neither he nor Dudley did, and she knew that he had somehow caused it. He had no reason to expect a pleasant little chat.

It was a seeming eternity until the bell rang. Harry took his time gathering his books, allowing the other students to leave ahead of him. Dudley took advantage of Harry's distracted slowness to shove him nearly out of his seat on his way out, an action which Harry made no move to avenge; he was preoccupied with what, exactly Miss Ebony was going to say to him.

When all of his classmates had left, Harry stood reluctantly and walked to the front of the room. Miss Ebony regarded him coolly, but not without kindness. She leaned back against her desk until he arrived at the front row of desks.

"M-Miss Ebony," he stammered. "I—"

"Harry Potter," she interrupted smoothly. "There's no need for explanation. I assure you, I probably understand better than you what just happened. You're not here for a reprimand."

"Oh." He could think of no fitting reply.

She smiled gravely. "I don't blame you for disliking Dudley," she said. "In my personal opinion, he's a pig and a dull-witted thug. I know he mistreats you continually; I would doubtless be angry, as well." The smile faded, and she appeared even more serious. "But please, Harry, don't give in to the temptation to lower yourself to his subterranean level."

Miss Ebony paused a moment for emphasis, then continued. "We carry always with us a likeness of our parents. Having never met yours, I can still see in you that they were people of courage and character. I wish to encourage you, Harry: live up to their examples." She paused again, and Harry felt her eyes searching his. It seemed to him that she recognized something about him that had nothing to do with his parents.

"There are two natures present in you," she murmured at last. "The lion and the snake. I believe the lion will dominate; I hope so. It did with me." Her eyes had fallen out of focus, and Harry wondered nervously if she was all there; she seemed to have faded out of the real world almost entirely. Suddenly, though, her eyes refocused and zoomed in to lock onto his. "Do my words puzzle you, Harry?"

He swallowed, but nodded.

Miss Ebony smiled again. "The day is coming when they will make perfect sense," she assured him. "And before then, I daresay you'll have met a great many people stranger than me." She glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at him. "I've overstayed my five minutes. Have a good afternoon, Harry." Her eyes shone oddly. "And for everyone's sake, not the least your own, keep a rein on your temper."


	8. Reptilian Ham

****

Chapter 8: Reptilian Ham

PRESENT: SEPTEMBER

The remainder of the summer passed quickly, and Meli was assigned another errand concerning Harry Potter: Dumbledore asked her to escort him personally from King's Cross to Hogwarts.

The day before Meli was due to depart for London, an owl arrived for her. She read the letter carefully, then burned it and went to Dumbledore.

"I'll need to leave a few hours earlier than planned," she said. "There's something I need to pick up on the way to King's Cross."

Whatever Dumbledore's thoughts on the matter, he merely nodded and wished her a safe journey—rather ironic, Meli thought, considering just what it was that she would be picking up and transporting.

She arrived at King's Cross an hour early and passed the time by reading a thoroughly tedious book Andrea had highly recommended (_"Riveting story" indeed,_ she thought disgustedly. _I don't know who's more loopy—Melville for writing it, Ishmael for agreeing to narrate it, or Andrea for reading and recommending it_). She was relieved to see the Weasleys coming, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger among them. Meli tossed her book in the trash, then stood, picking up a large case from the floor. The thing was heavy and awkward, but well-adapted for what it was designed to carry.

Harry caught sight of her almost immediately, and, nudging Ron Weasley, pointed her out. She found herself the instant center of attention, though she still stood fifty or so feet away. She smiled coolly and closed the distance between herself and them.

"Hello, Harry," she said cordially. "Going to Hogwarts, I see."

He nodded, then quickly introduced her to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Fred and George, Ron, Ginny, and Hermione. She shook each hand in turn, smiling warmly at each face, then looked once more to Harry. "I'm to see you the rest of the way there," she told him quietly.

He looked to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, who nodded, Mrs. Weasley giving his arm an encouraging squeeze. They all walked together as far as Platforms 9 and 10, where Meli walked through first with Harry. She waited with him until Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and the twins joined them, then accompanied the group first to the luggage car, then to a passenger compartment. Fred and George hurried away, their manner suggesting to the Skulker in Meli that they were hatching a plot, and Ginny would have followed Harry and his friends had she not caught sight of a shy-looking boy. She left instead with him, her ears going pink as Ron gave Harry and Hermione an eloquent look.

"Those two sent owls almost every day all summer," Ron informed them. "And every time she opens her mouth, it's 'Neville this' and 'Neville that'. Fred and George swear she's the next Mrs. Longbottom."

Meli smirked. "And have you any leads on the future Mrs. Ronald Weasley?" she countered.

Ron's own ears went pink, but he drew himself up proudly. "I'm going to be a single man!" he declared, then sat down with a self-satisfied smile.

"I'm sure Fleur will be interested to know that," Hermione remarked, sitting down opposite him and liberating her pug-ugly cat from its carrier. "Which reminds me: I need to write a letter to Viktor."

Ron's entire face went red now, but he said nothing further.

Shaking her head, Meli sat between Hermione and the window, carefully setting her carrying case level on the floor under her feet—and everyone else's, for that matter. Harry sat down opposite her.

"Are you the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, then?" Hermione asked.

Meli turned to look at her, raising her eyebrows. "Yes, Miss Granger," she replied. "There's more need for that discipline than ever now; I hope I may live up to the challenge."

"Well, your choices in text books are excellent, at least," Hermione told her. "I've looked them over since I got them—they're quite thorough."

_Just as Severus said,_ Meli thought, amused. _A near-escapee from Ravenclaw, and quite vocal to boot_. Aloud, she said, "I'm flattered, Miss Granger. I suppose the next few days will show if the teacher lives up to her texts."

Further conversation was cut off by someone sliding open their compartment door. Meli's stomach churned with recognition: before them stood the arrogant figure of Draco Malfoy, accompanied by his thuggish cronies. It was with an almost physical effort that she maintained her impassive mask; she had much rather beat him black and blue.

"It's Potty and Wheezy," Malfoy sneered.

Hermione, perhaps encouraged by the presence of a teacher, rolled her eyes and sighed with exasperation. "Oh, please, Malfoy," she sneered back. "You've used that greeting before. If you're going to impress us with your disdain, you'll need to broaden your repertoire a bit."

Malfoy, unfazed, now turned on Hermione. "Sorry, Mudblood—were you talking?"

Ron was on his feet, wand out, in under a second, but Meli was faster. Before anything further could be said, she'd leveled her own wand at Malfoy's mouth. "_Sellus_."

The spell took immediate effect. Malfoy's lips came together, then fused entirely, leaving him no mouth with which to utter the choice words he was doubtless screaming in his mind. His vocal chords were certainly getting a workout at muffled shrieking, though. Crabbe and Goyle backed away from him, as if afraid the effect was contagious. Harry, Hermione, and Ron stared first at Malfoy, then at Meli, in open-mouthed shock.

"Have a seat, Ron," she said calmly as she stood. "Mr. Malfoy," she continued in more clipped tones, regarding him coolly. "Since you apparently have no notion of appropriate timing for when not to speak, I've had to help you out a bit. Now, if you return to your seat and go the duration of this journey without any major incidents, then present yourself here when we arrive in Hogsmeade, I'll be only too happy to return your mouth to you."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed in anger, and he turned the backs of his first two fingers to her. _He's stupider than Flint ever was,_ she thought, surprised at his temerity. She sighed. "I really wish you hadn't done that," she told him. "Not only will you be unable to enjoy the feast tonight, but in addition, for that last little stunt of yours, Slytherin House begins the year with a fifty point deficit." She brandished her wand again. "Now, I suggest you three gentlemen remove yourselves immediately, or I shall employ a very creative way of removing you myself."

To her partial disappointment, they saw fit to remove themselves unassisted, leaving Meli to slide the door shut again in their wake and calmly resume her seat. She was well aware of the awed looks the three remaining students leveled at her, but she chose to ignore them while she casually put away her wand and straightened her sleeves. After a moment, she looked up and raised her eyebrows. "What?"

Ron found his voice first. "That was _so wicked_!" he all but whispered.

"Thank you, Mr. Weasley," Meli said dryly. "I'll take that in the spirit it was intended."

"Is that . . . allowed?" Hermione asked.

Meli looked mildly at her. "It's not as though I turned him into a ferret, is it?"

"He's had that done to him, too," Ron informed her.

"Hm." Meli furrowed her brow in mock-concern. "I'll have to broaden my own repertoire, then." She shook her head regretfully. "Alas, poor Slytherin," she sighed. "What a tragedy that this should be your face."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Were you a Slytherin, then?" he asked, apparently surprised at the prospect.

"A narrow miss, I assure you," Meli replied. "No, I was a Gryffindor, but I had two very good friends in Slytherin." She shrugged. "I've been told I have enough deviousness in me to qualify as an honorary Slytherin, though."

None of the trio seemed quite willing to explore that point. Meli grinned inwardly; as Collum had taught her, properly worded candor was ever the best killer of idle chatter.

The ensuing silence bothered Ron first. He cleared his throat a few times, then his eyes fell on Meli's carrying case.

_Oh, dear. Here it comes—_

"Are you bringing a pet to Hogwarts?" he asked.

_Brazen, even for a Gryffindor._ "Yes," she said aloud. "I've just picked him up from a friend's house this morning."

"What sort of pet is he?" Hermione inquired, scratching her own pet behind the ears.

"Er . . . solitary," Meli replied. "Other animals generally don't like him." A thump sounded from inside the case, indicating that the pet in question was listening to every word.

"So there's no chance of us meeting him?" Ron seemed disappointed.

There was another thump, followed by a voice. "Oh, by all means let me out! _He's_ not very careful what he wishes for, is he?"

Meli kicked sharply at the case, then gave Harry a warning look before he could say anything. "Actually," she said coolly, "Monty's very interested in meeting you. But I don't think Miss Granger's cat or either of the owls would much like to meet _him_."

"Is he . . . safe?" Harry asked cautiously, gauging the case and obviously running size calculations in his head.

"As long as I'm around, yes."

Hermione blithely shoved her cat back into its carrier, and Ron tossed his work robe over his owl's cage. Harry did the same for his owl, but far more slowly; he knew, or at least strongly suspected, what it was Meli had brought with her.

"Let me at 'em!" Monty uttered, then followed the words with his version of maniacal laughter. To Ron and Hermione's ears, it probably sounded a great deal like a rodent having an asthma attack.

Meli sighed, then picked up the case and propped it, door-upwards, against the side of the compartment. She carefully opened the door, then dangled her arm through the opening, and Monty made a very majestic entrance winding around it.

Ron and Hermione's eyes and mouths were opened to full capacity, and even Harry was rather surprised.

"Thank you, thank you," Monty hissed, bowing his head to each one in turn. "Please hold your applause 'til the end. I'm here until Tuesday. Try the Cauldron Cakes—they're tasty!"

Meli rolled her eyes, and Harry burst out laughing. Hermione just shook her head in wonder at something completely different: "You've got a _python_ named Monty?!"

"What else would you name a python?" Meli countered.

Monty drew himself up on her shoulder. "It's a perfectly beautiful name, with a time-honored tradition!" he sniffed, with an air of wounded pride.

Meli had great difficulty keeping a straight face; Harry didn't even try.

"What's so weird about a python named Monty?" Ron asked, confused.

"Exactly my point!" Monty declared, with a bow to Ron. "Thank you, sir."

Meli cleared her throat. "It might interest you to know," she said, by way of changing the subject, "that Monty was preceded by a viper named Dodge, a boa constrictor named Feather—"

"Neither of whom was half so good looking as me," Monty added helpfully.

"And a prairie rattlesnake named Casita."

"And _she_ was _very_ ugly, I shouldn't doubt," Monty put in. "Of course, she's even uglier now, since she's _dead_!"

Meli gave him a withering look. "Will you kindly shut up?" she said, being careful to address him in English.

"A_las_ and a_lack_!" the python hissed melodramatically. "Whether 'tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrows—"

"All right, that does it!" To the wondering eyes of all, Meli caught the twelve-foot snake in a powerful grip and shoved him back into his cage, closing the door behind him.

There was a brief pause, then Monty's voice emerged again, sounding rather weepy. "Out, out, brief candle!" he sniffled. "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more!"

Meli sighed and rolled her eyes, then re-situated the case on the floor. "I should never have let him near Shakespeare," she grumbled.

Harry grinned. "Is he always like that?"

"Only when he has an appreciative audience," she replied.

Hermione and Ron exchanged opaque looks. "I think we missed something," Ron said.

Hermione's return smile showed that she understood the reason. "Evidently so," was her only reply, however.


	9. The First Day of Classes

****

Chapter 9: The First Day of Classes

Ebony had left Harry and his friends upon their arrival at Hogsmeade, but he soon saw her again, sitting to the left of Snape at the head table. She had somehow found time to replace her Muggle attire with witch's robes, though she still wore no hat. Her robes were unadorned black and of a sober cut. She was tall, he realized anew; Snape was less than a head taller than she. Ebony, like the Potions master, betrayed no emotions whatsoever, though her countenance was slightly less forbidding.

And, to Snape's right, there sat a figure at once familiar and nondescript (though, had he stood, he would have been quite conspicuous for his height). Zarekael, the Potions apprentice, himself pale and dark, sober and unwelcoming, sat calmly at his adoptive father's right, watching silently as the first years entered. Harry had briefly met Zarekael twice, once on Diagon Alley and again his second year at Hogwarts, and while the other seemed civil enough, Harry had needed no encouragement (though both Hagrid and the Weasley twins had given it) to steer clear of him. He and Ebony seemed to be on fairly good terms, though; as Harry watched, Zarekael said something that elicited a broad smile from Ebony and even a smirk from Snape. Ebony leaned forward to look past Snape at Zarekael and reply with a comment of her own.

"Three peas in a pod, they are," Ron remarked, mild disapproval dusting the words. "Looks like Ebony gets on pretty well with Snape."

Harry shrugged. "She treated us all right," he pointed out.

"Well, at least Snape _likes_ the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," Hermione said. "It's a refreshing change, I'd say."

"Maybe she's his cousin," Ron grumbled.

"Meaning what?" Hermione prompted, and Ron fell silent, obviously not sure himself.

Before another word could be said, the doors at the far end of the Great Hall closed, announcing that the last of the new students had entered. In watching the passing students, Harry happened to glance at the Slytherin table. He grinned; Malfoy sat between Crabbe and Goyle, still mouthless and in the worst mood in which Harry had seen him since they had served detention together as first years.

When all of the first years had been Sorted, Dumbledore made his customary start-of-the-year announcements, including one introducing Ebony, and finishing with one that was unusually non-threatening and even a little cheery: "This year, in place of a feast on Halloween, we will be celebrating with a costume ball."

That announcement drew cheers from most of the student body, and even the teachers seemed pleased by the arrangement.

Well, most of the teachers, Harry amended. The dark trio of Snape, Zarekael, and Ebony showed different reactions. Snape, predictably, wore a scowl, and his mouth had a turn to it that indicated a severe case of dyspepsia. Zarekael's frown was more thoughtful, but it caused his inhuman blue eyes to narrow in something akin to a blood-freezing glare, beside which Snape's countenance was by far preferable. Ebony, for her part, wore a neutral expression that Harry had learned to associate with deep and dangerous thought; she had usually worn it immediately before launching into a tirade about what a rotten, spoiled, stupid, useless, scumsucking lowlife Dudley (or one of his friends) was.

_Occasionally_, such an expression had preceded something fun, but that something had always been accompanied by something else—a something so alarmingly bizarre sometimes that the incident could later become a fond memory, but it was rarely an unadulterated pleasure at the time.

One memorable occasion that hadn't been _so_ disturbing was a game of dodge ball at recess in which she, the teacher, had participated. At Dudley's complaint that the game was boring, Ebony had divided the teams in a much more interesting way: herself versus her twenty-five students. That had been good and well . . . and then she had added to the mix a basketball and two footballs, along with the usual bouncy balls.

Dudley had immediately risen to the bait, seizing both footballs and sending one at Harry's head and the other at Ebony's stomach. He missed with both, fortunately for the health of everyone involved, and then Ebony had started dealing out _her_ blows. She never was hit, and she never used the harder balls, though she obligingly rolled them back when they came her way. Her aim was far better than Dudley's, with the result that, after a volley in which she had thrown perhaps thirty times, Dudley was the only student left in.

"At least you could say you were gotten out by a well-aimed throw!" she called. "If I were going to be nice to you, that is."

During her comment, Dudley had hurled the basketball as hard as he could, his aim even worse for his frustration. Somehow, though, Ebony got under it, her arms wide open, and as soon as she stopped speaking, she caught the ball soundly in her hands.

Ebony had a quirky enough sense of humor and a twisted enough mind that Harry could not help but wonder, and that very worriedly, just what sort of idea was taking form behind that bland, impassive face of hers. Halloween at Hogwarts was never boring . . . but this year he had no doubt that Professor Meli Ebony would make it thoroughly, perhaps even traumatically, interesting.

It had been five years since Harry had last sat in Professor Ebony's class, and that had been in a Muggle school. He had only a few remembrances of specific occasions, and he recalled nothing at all about her teaching method. That he had learned a great deal when she taught was an indisputable fact, but his fondest memories were of her disciplinary methods and the torments through which she had regularly put Dudley.

Professor Ebony proved to be vastly different from every previous Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher Harry had had, and yet she seemed to share important traits with both Professors Lupin and Moody. She gave the class her name, then immediately launched into a lecture. Less than a minute in, every student was furiously scribbling notes, and within three more minutes, Ebony was firing off pointed questions to which she expected informed answers. Fortunately, it was all review, but summer break had allowed a great deal of dust and cobwebs to settle over pixies, hinkypunks, vampires, and werewolves.

Ten minutes into class, Ebony abruptly stopped, straightened her duster sweater (she had traded in her witch's robe for black jeans, a blue blouse, and a black hooded duster), and leaned back against her desk, a faint smile on her face. "Got your attention now, have I?" she said lightly, drawing every eye to her. "Since you're all now familiar with my method of lecture, I needn't waste any time explaining it to you. Those of you who read and comprehend on schedule should have nothing to worry about."

To Harry's left, Neville Longbottom started to sweat.

Ebony, perhaps aware of this, continued smoothly, "And for any who have trouble with the material, I am available in between classes, and I'll remain in my office until dinner. Seek me out at your own convenience; anonymity will be preserved, naturally, if such is your pleasure. Only _don't _suffer in silence." Her smile turned sardonic. "I'm a Gryffindor myself—I understand the compulsion to be a martyr. Please allow me to suggest, however, that martyrdom is both more useful and more honorable on the battlefield than in the classroom."

Light ripples of laughter rolled through the class, and even Neville cracked a relieved smile.

"Now," Ebony resumed, "our subject matter has always been intriguing, but perhaps some or all of you may find it to be even more so in these uncertain times." Her eyes narrowed. "I caution you from the beginning: While you should never treat any of this as theory, do _not_ treat it as practical offensive weaponry. Some of you have had contact with practitioners of the Dark Arts, and what you've learned in this class in the past has served you well. Keep in mind, however, that the title of this class is _Defense_ Against the Dark Arts. What you learn here is learned for defense. Leave offensive strikes to the Aurors, no matter how your courage and bravery might tempt you to act." She paused, looking each student in the eye before continuing. "Believe me, if He-Whom-You-Do-Not-Name is around for long, you will get much more out of what I teach you if you use it defensively rather than offensively."

She stood upright once more and resumed her lecturer's air. "The first step in any mode of defense is to _think_," she stated. "You analyze the threat, and you devise the best possible defense against it. Only afterward do you act. This can be an almost instantaneous process. For example!" She swooped down on Seamus Finnigan like an attacking harpy. Seamus nearly tumbled over the desk behind him in an effort to dodge her.

"There!" Ebony said triumphantly. "Well done, Finnigan. Five points to Gryffindor. You saw me coming at you, you perceived that I could knock you over, and you determined that the best way to prevent it was to get out of my way. All of that in the blink of an eye!"

Seamus did not look any less startled or ruffled for this hearty congratulation. Ebony, however, had already returned to the front of the classroom and to her lecture.

"Reflexes serve us well," she told them. "But it is the threats for which we need more than reflexes that require the most preparation. Thought must take place ahead of time, and it is _these_ reactions which most matter in the end." She turned sober eyes briefly to Harry, then away. "Magic is of little, if any, assistance here. It is who we are, what we value, and why we hold certain beliefs that determine if we will fall or stand against a wielder of the Dark Arts. If you do not know what you believe and why, you will flounder and fall when it is called into question—and it _will_ be called into question."

She turned, pointing her wand at the air above her desk. "_Tabula rasa._" A clear, shimmery surface appeared where she had pointed. "I submit for your consideration the following assertion," she said, busily writing across the surface with her wand. "'There is no such thing as good or evil. There is only power and those too weak to use it.'" When she stepped away, those same words glowed green in the air above her desk.

Something twisted in Harry's stomach. He had heard those words before, but they had been stated as fact, and they had come from the mouth of Voldemort himself.

"Is there," Ebony asked, tapping her chin thoughtfully with her wand, "anyone here either who accepts these statements as true or who is willing to play the devil's advocate?"

The question was greeted with stony silence.

Ebony raised her eyebrows. "Cautious Gryffindors," she observed. "How refreshing." She smiled daringly. "Then is there anyone who would like to vocalize opposition to the assertion in question?"

Hermione slowly raised her hand. "I will."

"Very well, Miss Granger." Ebony gazed steadily at Hermione, with all the appearance of a predator considering her prey. "You oppose this stance. Why?"

"Because there _is_ right and wrong," Hermione replied.

"How do you know?" Ebony countered. "How do you know that good and evil are not the inventions of leadership figures who use such concepts as a means for furthering and consolidating their own power?"

Hermione was taken aback. "Well," she stammered after a moment, "my conscience tells me there's right and wrong."

"Ah, yes. The conscience." Ebony smiled. "But the conscience is a product of socialization, and if you have been socialized by the very people who invented the concepts of good and evil, your conscience cannot be objectively relied upon as proof, can it?"

Ron now leapt in to the rescue. "But Dumbledore's the most powerful wizard of our time," he declared stoutly. "And he doesn't flaunt his power; he knows the difference between good and evil." This elicited murmurs of agreement and approval from the rest of the class.

"Most powerful wizard, you say?" Ebony cocked her head to one side. "If he's _so_ powerful, why is He-Whom-You-Do-Not-Name still a threat? You will answer, doubtless, that it is because Dumbledore has a conscience. He withholds his hand because the actions necessary to decimate his enemy require use of the Dark Arts, which has been deemed evil?"

Ron nodded stubbornly.

"Does he not do a greater evil by allowing that enemy to live?" Ebony countered. "By withholding his hand, Dumbledore permits this menace to go unchecked—perhaps even, one day, to take control. If such things as good and evil exist, is this not a great evil?"

"There are other ways of defeating Voldemort," Harry heard himself say. All of the students recoiled at his use of that name, but Ebony turned to face him fully, a triumphant light darting through her eyes almost too quickly to see.

"I'm listening," she said.

Harry swallowed, deeply regretting having spoken. His thoughts were in complete disarray. If there was anything Ebony had proven so far, it was that evidence mattered just as much as 

assertion . . . but what _did_ he have in the way of evidence, after all?

Before he said anything, Ebony smiled. "Very good, Potter. Get your thoughts together first."

Harry forced a smile, and as he did, one thought came to the fore. "Some things are more powerful than Dark Magic," he stated. "A willing sacrifice can turn back even the Instant Death curse."

"And why, do you think, is such a sacrifice more powerful than the _Kedavra_ curse?" Ebony asked softly.

He shook his head. "I don't know," he replied. "I haven't figured it out exactly; I just know for a fact that it worked."

Ebony looked measuringly at him, then broadened her attention to the whole class. "When faced with this test," she said deliberately, "there are two things only on which you can rely: facts and indisputable experience. Experience is most compelling when it is also backed by facts, rendering it more objective than subjective. Logic and rhetoric, in the end, are the tools of confusion, not clarity. When all is said and done, the very foundation of everything you know, believe, and stand for _must _be basic, inarguable _facts_. If you don't understand the facts behind your experience, it is imperative that you study to discover them; experience will get you so far, but you must understand why it worked."

She smiled again. "Ten points each to Weasley and Miss Granger for courage and fortitude in the face of a _very_ difficult teacher who delights in flummoxing students. Ten also to Potter for helping me to illustrate the point of this exercise."

There was only time then for her to give out their reading assignments before the bell rang. Harry couldn't help wondering as he left with Ron and Hermione just how much thought Professor Ebony had put into opposing Voldemort's assertion and if she had ever actually battled it out with a Death Eater.

Double Potions, the class immediately after Defense Against the Dark Arts, promised to be better this year, if for no other reason than the fact that Snape would not be teaching it. Since beginning his apprenticeship the year before, Zarekael had been responsible for teaching the three upper levels of Potions. Snape supervised his apprentice's teaching, it was true, but the job of tormenting students (or not, as he chose) fell to Zarekael.

When compared with classes in which the teacher was openly pleasant, Potions still ranked low, but Zarekael was so little disposed to favoritism of Slytherin—and so little disposed to point deductions—that Harry considered it his best class of the day. The Potions apprentice was every bit as dark and forbidding as the Potions master, all the more so because of his height and evident physical power, but his silence was a blessing for every Gryffindor present.

Malfoy, unfortunately, was not so silent. His mouth had been restored to him sometime before classes started (though Harry suspected that Ebony had not been a part of that act of mercy) and now he made far too much use of it. He had a snotty comment for everything and everyone on the Gryffindor side of the room, and only an icy glare from Zarekael motivated him to pipe down.

Snape came out of his office and into the classroom near the end of the period, and then Malfoy made a very serious misstep.

The snide Slytherin, having gotten to a point where he could stop monitoring his cauldron, stood up and walked over to Snape, a gleam in his eye that told Harry he was up to no good. Harry nudged Ron and Hermione, who looked up just as Malfoy arrived at his destination.

Snape raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Is there a problem, Mr. Malfoy?" he asked.

"Yes, sir." Malfoy smiled ingratiatingly. "Do you think it's right for a teacher to single out a student for the purpose of persecuting and humiliating him?"

Something like amusement touched the Potions master's mouth, and his eyes flicked to Harry, then back to Malfoy. "Your point, Mr. Malfoy?" he prompted dryly.

"Ebony did that very thing to me!" Malfoy replied indignantly.

"And yet for all the persecution and humiliation you claim to have undergone, the lesson seems to have been in vain because it has not taught you to _shut up_!" Snape countered, his voice raising slightly in volume. He glared at Malfoy, something which Harry could not remember Snape ever having done to any Slytherin. "Now I am going to ask you a series of questions, which you will answer promptly here and now."

Malfoy, his eyes wide, nodded just a touch too quickly.

"First, Mr. Malfoy, if you have a legitimate concern to bring to the Head of your House, when would be the best time to do it—while he is supervising a class, or when he is free to talk with individual students?"

Malfoy gulped. "The . . . latter, sir."

"And, moreover, should you do it privately, or in front of a number of people who have little or nothing to do with the issue?"

"Privately . . . sir."

"And if that concern requires you to speak to your Head of House about one of his colleagues, would you do better to speak of that colleague respectfully, or disrespectfully?"

By now, Malfoy's ordinary pallor had taken on a tinge of sickly green. "Respectfully, sir."

Snape's eyes had narrowed to burning slits. "And lastly, Mr. Malfoy, when presenting a concern to your Head of House, should you go about it humbly, or with a repulsive, cocky arrogance that shows your concern to be nothing but the petty politicking of a pathetic and prideful little prat!" He waited a moment, watching Malfoy go from sickly to faint, then said, "You don't have to answer that.

"In future, Mr. Malfoy, I suggest that if you have a problem with _Professor_ Ebony, you take it up first with _her_. If that fails, or if you prefer to come to me, behave properly or be prepared to suffer the consequences." He paused again, then shifted his attention to include the entire class. "The Slytherins will please note that thirty points have been deducted for your classmate's reprehensible stupidity. You may take some comfort, however slight, in the fact that he will also be serving a thoroughly unpleasant detention, as well."

With that and a stiff nod to Zarekael, Snape exited the room once more, leaving Malfoy to return miserably to his seat, the eyes of everyone in the room riveted on him.

The bell rang five minutes later, and immediately whispering erupted all over the room. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stowed implements in their bags, their heads close together to facilitate conversation.

"I _never_ thought I'd ever see something like that!" Ron breathed. "Snape dressing down Malfoy—and for a Gryffindor who's got the job he wants, no less! Do you think Snape's sweet on Ebony?"

"Well, they're friends, anyway," Hermione allowed. "But I don't think it was just because of Ebony that he went off like that."

Harry looked sidewise at her. "You think it's because of _Malfoy_?"

She shrugged, then closed and shouldered her bag. "Do we know that Snape ever liked Malfoy?" she countered. "He'll favor Malfoy over _us_ because we're Gryffindors, but if Malfoy by himself pushes Snape too far, or if Malfoy sets himself up against one of Snape's friends . . ."

Harry nodded as the pieces fit together. "Boom."

"Exactly."

"Well, it's more comforting to think of that than of Snape being sweet on . . . well, anyone," Ron conceded. "And it _was_ nice to see Malfoy get his due for once."

They stepped out into the corridor, past a group of muttering Slytherins. Harry glanced at them, then back at his friends. "I have a feeling Malfoy's going to get a lot worse behind closed doors," he whispered. Hermione nodded her agreement; Ron just smiled.


	10. Quidditch Tryouts

****

Chapter 10: Quidditch Tryouts

Meli smelled a rat as soon as McGonagall came into her office. The Head of Gryffindor House seemed just a touch too friendly for her comfort, setting off an alarm in the back of Meli's that the other wanted something. No pure Gryffindor, whatever her age, could sneak up on a Slytherin (or a quasi-Slytherin) without slightly tipping her hand.

"Good afternoon," Meli said calmly, standing and offering McGonagall a seat. "What can I do for you?"

McGonagall smiled sweetly, which only further alarmed her former student. "I wonder, Meli," she began, "if you could do me a great favor."

"Well," Meli replied carefully, "that depends greatly upon the favor."

"Madam Hooch has fallen ill," the other told her.

_I'm _not_ teaching first year flying lessons!_ Aloud she said, "Oh, poor dear!"

McGonagall nodded. "Yes. It's nothing too serious, but she'll be under the weather for the weekend. We've covered her flying classes tomorrow—"

_Good._

"—but she won't be able to supervise quidditch tryouts."

Meli stared at McGonagall, fully convinced that the older witch had lost her marbles. "You can't be serious," she breathed. "I didn't even _play_ quidditch, Professor. What do I know about managing tryouts?"

McGonagall held up her hand in what Meli supposed was intended as a mollifying gesture. "The teams conduct the tryouts," she assured her. "They merely need a teacher to supervise, to see that things don't get out of hand." She smiled again. "And all I'm asking is for you to cover the Gryffindor tryouts."

Meli looked narrowly at her; short of an emergency cobweb count (an excuse she could only use once, if at all, with McGonagall), she could see no way of getting out of this. "And my precise duties 

are—?"

"To be visible as an authority figure," McGonagall replied. "To act as an authority figure if necessary." Her smile turned into something suspiciously close to a smirk. "To enjoy yourself for two hours on a Saturday morning."

_I could be writing lesson plans._ "I have difficulty enjoying myself outdoors in daylight," Meli said flatly. She caught the look on McGonagall's face and sighed feelingly. "However, in the spirit of the occasion, I suppose I could make a try at it." She sighed, but felt a traitorous half-smile appear on her face. _I don't suppose, strictly speaking, that it would kill me to be simultaneously outside and sociable for two hours._ "All right, then," she sighed. "Sign me up, Professor."

"Thank you, Meli," McGonagall said, standing.

_As if I really had a choice in the matter._

The older witch turned to leave, then turned back at the doorway. "And incidentally," she added, "now that you're also a teacher here, you _can_ call me Minerva."

Meli waited until McGonagall had gone, then dropped her head to her desk with a thud. "First sunshine and fresh air, and now Minerva," she groaned. "I don't think I can take much more of this."

There was a light rap at the door, and she raised her head to find an amused Snape standing in the doorway. "Should I come back later?" he asked mildly.

"No, no, by all means come right in," she invited, sounding to her own ears like John Cleese nearing his breaking point. "Have a seat, make yourself comfortable." _Not that I have any intention of reading _Ethel the Aardvark Goes Quantity-Surveying _to you._

Snape entered, but he politely declined to sit. "I only dropped by to warn you that Madame Hooch is ill—"

"And Minerva McGonagall was hoping to rope me into supervising Gryffindor's quidditch tryouts?" Meli suggested.

Snape gave her a narrow look. "Minerva has been here already," he observed belatedly. "That explains a few things."

"Yes," Meli replied, smiling broadly and not quite sanely. "So I have to go unpack my sunscreen, _and_ I've been asked to call my Head of House by her given name, all in one day. Isn't it wonderful?"

One corner of Snape's mouth turned upward. "Do you know, you sound a bit like John Cleese near the end of 'The Bookshop Sketch'."

"Funny, I was just thinking exactly the same thing!" Meli glanced at her watch, then sobered rather depressingly. "I need to go to a pub."

Snape nearly smiled at that. "I can't argue that point," he replied. "In fact, I don't think I _should_."

Meli stood. "Well, in that case, you're welcome to come along. Does the Three Broomsticks pour decent scotch?"

Aside from all of the fresh air and sunshine, the Gryffindor quidditch tryouts actually weren't _too_ terrible. In fact, Meli found them rather amusing. Following the graduation of Oliver Wood, the rest of the team had unanimously elected Fred and George Weasley to succeed him as co-captains. Wood's absence had also freed up an opening for a new Keeper—the only position Gryffindor had to fill that year. No fewer than five Gryffindors wanted the position, among them the captains' brother Ron.

Ron's trying out for the team put the twins in something of a tough spot; they had no desire to be accused of nepotism, but they also wanted to give him a fair chance at making the team. Here Meli's imagination helped them out a great deal.

"How many quaffles can we get our hands on?" she asked.

Fred and George exchanged looks, then shrugged. "Two or three," the former hazarded.

"Right. We'll need them." She offered a mild smile. "Why don't you have the candidates take turns minding the rings while I pummel them with quaffles? The one who blocks the most shots out 

of . . . say, fifty, is your new Keeper."

George crossed his arms and looked at her thoughtfully. "Sounds good," he allowed. "But why do you get to have all the fun?"

"Because I'm the teacher," Meli replied, smiling wickedly. "When you're the teacher, you can have all of the fun."

The twins agreed to the plan and dispatched one of the Chasers to go find some extra quaffles. With what she brought back, they had an arsenal of three, so Meli transfigured her shoes to bring the complement up to five. The first would-be Keeper took position in front of the rings, and Meli, with another wicked smile, commenced with the nobbling. Her attention was focused on counting the number of times she aimed quaffles; it was up to the rest of the team to count successful deflections, which they obligingly did (following the twins' lead) at the top of their lungs.

By that fairly impartial test, Ron indisputably won the competition, blocking all but twelve shots. The next closest scorer was Dennis Creevey, who deflected twenty-five. He took it well enough, though, vowing to try again after Ron graduated.

Their tryouts completed, the Gryffindors strode off of the pitch, making way for the Slytherin team. Draco Malfoy, who was among them, glared spitefully at Ron, then at Harry Potter, then at Meli. The former two didn't notice; Meli rewarded Malfoy with a bone-chilling warning smile that caused him to look away so quickly he nearly gave himself whiplash.

Snape ran into her in the corridor near Slytherin, which she had to pass to go to her rooms. He narrowed his eyes in amusement, then cocked his head. "I see you survived your outdoor adventure," he noted dryly.

"Barely," she replied. "And I'm afraid I may have the beginnings of a tan, an injury from which I may never recover."

He nodded mock-sympathetically. "I'm sure that the students in Gryffindor appreciate your sacrifice," he said. "They would, of course—it's a House full of martyrs."

"I'm sure their appreciation of anything having to do with me will disappear come exam time," she countered sardonically. "For which I'm very thankful."


	11. Errands in London

****

Chapter 11: Errands in London

The following Thursday night, Meli took her seat beside Snape at the head table, acknowledging with a smile his and Zarekael's nodded greetings.

"So, Severus," she said conversationally, "have you settled on a costume for the Halloween Ball yet?" It was a joke, or so she thought; Snape was not ordinarily one who would enjoy traipsing about in a silly costume unless it served a more vital purpose than simply having fun.

To her surprise, though, Snape smirked and replied, "But of course." He raised amused eyebrows, then added, "Have you?"

Meli's own eyebrows had gained substantial elevation, and she lost a bit of her momentum. She retained her poise, however, and said, a smirk on her own face, "Why, Severus, you're becoming positively social. I half-expected you to tell me that you'd managed to wrangle your way out of going at all."

"Don't think it hadn't crossed my mind," Snape advised sardonically. "You, however, seem rather excited at the prospect of attending a costume ball."

"Ah, _there_ you introduce an interesting idea I'd not considered," Meli mused. "I _had_ thought to go as a sprite, but perhaps, since it's not merely a dance but a _ball_, I should go instead as Cinderella."

"That would require the presence of Prince Charming," Snape pointed out. "And should he make an appearance, you may be obliged to marry him."

Meli looked at him in mock-horror. "Oh, that would never do!" she breathed. "I'm far too tall for Flitwick!"

This declaration elicited amusement from Snape and a puzzled expression—which slowly faded to understanding as the pun sank in—from Zarekael.

"Perhaps, then, you would fare better as a sprite," the apprentice observed solemnly.

"Yes." She smiled again, laying aside her deadpan countenance for the moment. "That reminds me: I'm going to Muggle London this weekend to buy various necessities for my costume. Is there anything either of you would like me to pick up while I'm there?"

"You're going to Muggle London?" Zarekael repeated, a spark of interest touching the words.

_That's right,_ Meli recalled. _ He's never encountered Muggles_. "Would you like to come along?" she offered. _I doubt he'll take me up on it—_

"May I?" He seemed at once surprised and pleased by the invitation, though, like Snape, he had far too much control of his voice and countenance to show it openly.

_I'm batting a thousand tonight_, Meli thought sarcastically. Aloud, she replied, "Of course—if you really want to. I don't mind your company . . . as long as you don't mind mine."

"By her own account, Meli isn't very pleasant company," Snape cautioned dryly.

"Ah."

Meli smirked. "Perhaps I should have been more precise," she allowed. "When going among Muggles especially, my actions have been known to be rather more disconcerting than they are usually."

"Disconcerting in what way?" Zarekael asked warily.

"She's quite irritable," Snape answered. "She tells people exactly what she thinks of them when she's at liberty to do so, and she's been known to kick troublesome dogs."

Meli sighed in exasperation. "Oh, stop dwelling on all the positive things, Severus!"

By now Zarekael had fully caught on that, while there was probably truth to what Snape and Meli said, the exchange was not at all serious. His eyes were narrowed in a mild amusement when Meli again looked at him.

"I think you'll survive," she told him, smiling again. "You could pass for a Muggle in the right clothes and with an ear-bobbing charm. Mind you, an unusually _tall_ Muggle," she added, "but a Muggle nonetheless."

"That may prove to be a difficulty," Zarekael said. "I have no Muggle clothing."

Meli shrugged. "If that's the only problem, it's easily solved," she replied. _Collum is going to kill me . . . _ "I have an entire collection of Muggle clothing; finding an outfit for you shouldn't be too hard, and alterations are easily done with a little charm work."

"I have no wish to impose."

She offered him a wry half-smile. "If it was an imposition, I wouldn't have offered," she countered. "If you have time, we can fit you out after dinner."

Zarekael considered a moment, then nodded his assent. "Very well."

They left the Great Hall together after the meal, and Meli led him to her new quarters in the dungeons.

"I should warn you," she said as they neared her rooms, "Muggle clothing is almost as interesting and diverse as Muggle music; this could take awhile."

"How diverse is Muggle music?" Zarekael inquired.

Meli was saved from having to offer an immediate answer by their arrival at her door. She took her time working past the wards preventing easy and immediate entrance, but even the two minutes it bought her were insufficient to formulate a proper response. How could one explain the difference between Nickelback and Sting, for instance, to someone who had never heard either? She doubted she could even manage a sufficient explanation of acoustic versus electric sound.

The wards relented, and she was obliged to offer Zarekael a hopeless look as she led him inside. "I don't know precisely how to explain it," she confessed. "It would be much easier to play a couple of songs for you, but my DiscMan doesn't work at Hogwarts."

To judge by his expression, Zarekael had figured out from the context of her statement what a DiscMan might possibly be; he proved her deduction right with his reply. "There is a charm that may be used to reproduce music."

"Really?" She raised surprised eyebrows. "I didn't know that."

Zarekael narrowed his eyes in mild amusement. "I specifically asked Professor Flitwick if such a charm existed," he told her. "It is the only means by which I can hear music from home now. It's not difficult, merely uncommon."

"Interesting." Meli smiled. "Well, in that case, if you could teach me the charm, I'd be only too happy to play a couple of illustrative songs for you."

Monty chose that moment to slide out of her bedroom and inspect the visitor. To Meli's dismay, the python clearly did not like Zarekael at first blush. He slithered to within five feet of the Potions apprentice, where he stopped, lifted his head, and glared at the object of his scrutiny.

"This is _my_ domain!" he hissed venomously. "_Leave!"_

Meli was glad that Zarekael couldn't understand Monty's words; he didn't seem the type to take offense easily, but now was not the time to find out the hard way.

"Monty!" she snapped, well aware of her calculated risk. "He's _my_ guest. Now shut up and be polite, or I'll cage you."

Zarekael was most definitely a cool customer. Presented with clear evidence that his hostess was a Parselmouth, he did not so much as blink in horror, though he did raise a mild eyebrow.

_He probably isn't surprised so much by my being a Parselmouth as by my letting him know it,_ she thought. _Well, here's another surprise for you: I'm not ashamed of it anymore, and I trust you with the knowledge._

She and Monty glared at one another, then the python decided to force the issue by lunging. He was checked by light application of her boot to his jaw, and as he drew his head back, she caught him, first by the head, then by the tail. Within ten seconds, Monty found himself in Meli's bedroom with the door locked and warded behind him.

"Sorry about that," Meli said calmly, returning to her guest. "He's just a bit territorial."

"Ah," Zarekael replied, clearly amused.

She smiled. "So, returning to the question at hand—I find music far more interesting than Monty's many quirks—"

"Like to say that to my face?" Monty demanded, throwing himself against the door.

Meli sighed and drew her wand. "Once more earns a silencing charm," she called. She didn't want to do it, and as it turned out, she didn't have to. Beneath his bluster, Monty was actually quite reasonable, and he knew when he'd overstepped his bounds. 

"If you let me out, I'll go in my cage and shut up," he promised.

"Really." She couldn't recall him ever having volunteered to be caged, except on necessary occasions such as travel. _He must be curious to see what's going on,_ she concluded. "All right." She relented, unwarding the door, and the python slithered out of the bedroom and into his cage, drawing the door shut behind him with an expert flick of his tail.

Satisfied, Meli turned back to Zarekael. "A minor disagreement only," she assured him. "But you were telling me about the music reproduction charm."

Zarekael looked evaluatively at her for a moment, then, still very much amused, nodded. "As I said before, it's a simple enough charm to learn and to implement. I learned it before beginning as a student here."

It _was_ a simple charm, almost embarrassingly so. After hearing Zarekael's brief description of it, Meli was at a loss to explain to herself how such a charm could not be common knowledge. She filed it away in her long-term memory, then turned to her teacher with a smile.

"Would you like to hear some samples of Muggle music, then?" she asked.

Zarekael nodded. "Certainly."

Her smile turned a touch wicked. "I think I'll start out with 'Boom'." A few seconds later, Zarekael was treated to a strong dose of P.O.D., and Meli, catching sight of a wince, scaled back the volume a bit. There was no need to blast him, after all, and his hearing, she had learned, was far more sensitive than that of the average human.

His countenance was perfectly inscrutable; she had no clue what he thought of the song, beyond a notion that it had started out too loud. Once the song had played through, she turned to him inquisitively.

"It's . . . very interesting," he allowed. "No wonder you find Muggles so fascinating."

"Well, not all Muggles listen to P.O.D.," she told him. "There are countless styles of music, and most Muggles like a number of styles."

"For example?"

Meli shrugged. "Well . . . Celtic is a popular one. Here, try this." She cast the charm again, this time calling forth Máire Brennan's "To the Water". A greater contrast to P.O.D. could not be drawn; "To the Water" followed a definite meter, but it had no very strong percussion beat, and Máire, like her sister Enya, possessed a high, ethereal voice that in no way resembled Sonny's in-your-face rap. Where "Boom" bounced and crashed, "To the Water" floated and wafted; both were aptly named.

When this second song faded, Meli turned her attention to Zarekael. He had, as before, listened in perfect silence with a neutral expression, but now neutrality gave way to approbation. "A beautiful song," he observed. "I see what you mean when you say that Muggle music is diverse. The music of my home does not, perhaps, span such a wide spectrum, but there is still a variety of styles." He raised his eyebrows inquisitively. "Would you like to hear?"

Meli nodded and smiled. "I'd be honored," she replied, and it was true. The sharing of music was the sharing of part of oneself. She didn't particularly mind sharing only two songs, for she knew herself to be far too complicated to be easily known, and she had intentionally chosen songs that showed more of her surface than of her depth. However, it had been clear from the beginning that Zarekael knew far more of her than she knew of him; even if he went by the same policy she had used, choosing only surface songs, she was sure to learn something of him.

The first song he played had some elements similar to Celtic music: it was light and ethereal and brought to her mind images of fey creatures gathering in a wood to dance and laugh and, if struck by the fancy, to cast strange nets of enchantment about them. They were noble creatures and fair, with thoughts and purposes strange to the human mind, yet with a playful lightness that belied their wisdom.

_Yet I doubt, somehow, that the singer's words are at all describing such a scene,_ she thought. The singer was a trained soprano, but the lyrics she sang seemed to fade into the blend of unfamiliar string and wind instruments—and in any case, they were not in English, so Meli couldn't have understood them anyway.

After an unknown duration, the faërie slowly crept away, taking their spell-binding music with them and leaving Meli to face Zarekael's questioning look. It was a long moment before she could loose her tongue to speak. "It's beautiful," she breathed. _Even a world ripped apart by civil war and fear can retain aesthetic virtue,_ she observed silently. _Its people can both produce and appreciate beauty._

Zarekael could not have failed to see how the music had affected her, but he made no obvious reaction. Whether that was because he was content merely to observe, or because he did not know best how to react, she could not tell.

"Not all of our music is like that," he reminded her quietly after another moment. "There are other styles, as well. For example . . ." He cast the charm again, and another song came forth.

This was not an ugly song by any means, but it was quite different from its predecessor. While the meter was regular, the music's treatment of it was not. It landed on one side of the beat or the other, with a strange, rapid syncopation that must have rendered it very difficult for the musicians to master. Its progress was steady, though not precisely fast, and it was a good way into the song when Meli suddenly realized that the various different instruments were all playing different, consistent patterns that blended to produce the apparent irregularity. Even the vocalists followed consistent patterns when listened to individually, though together they created a complex harmony that was impossible to follow as a whole. Yet harmony it was, artfully constructed and skillfully carried out.

When this, too, faded, Meli shook her head in admiration. "The musicians and composers on your plane are extremely talented," she observed wonderingly. "To learn even two bars of that song would have given me fits. I can see why you asked Professor Flitwick for a way to bring your music here—I see even more now than I did before."

Zarekael acknowledged her words with a small bow from the neck and a narrowing of his eyes that approximated a smile. "The music of this plane is also beautiful, though in other ways," he replied. "Were our situations reversed, I doubt you would wish to leave your music behind." He tilted his head. "Having experienced the diversity of Muggle music," he continued, "I am curious to see the diversity of Muggle clothing."

His comment reminded her of the purpose for his visit. "Ah, yes. Muggle clothes."

She led him across the main room of her quarters to a small anteroom that led in turn to her bedroom. The anteroom was actually a large alcove, into which she'd tucked a bookshelf, a wardrobe, and a full-length mirror. The wardrobe was filled with Muggle garments—women's to the left, men's to the right. Meli opened the right-hand door, surveyed the resources available, and grinned.

This was going to be fun.

Meli looked at Zarekael appraisingly. "Well," she said after a moment, "I have to admit, this will be something of a challenge." She grinned again. "But that's all right; I _like_ challenges."

Anyone else—with the obvious exception of Snape, of course—might have withered at the sight of that grin; Zarekael merely raised an eyebrow.

"The first thing your height suggests is basketball," Meli continued, pulling a hanger out of her costume wardrobe. "So what do you think of this?"

Zarekael's eyes flicked briefly to the jersey, then back to her. "No," he said flatly.

She looked at the jersey, then her eyes widened in horror. "No, of course not!" she breathed. "Someone must have sneaked this one in as a joke. Naturally not the Denver Nuggets—you'll want a _real_ team!" She switched it out for a Chicago Bulls jersey.

"No."

"Charlotte Hornets?"

"No."

"Utah Jazz?"

"No."

She sighed theatrically, though she knew full well by now that his objection was to the style of shirt and not to the teams; Zarekael did not strike her as a sports fan. "All right, then . . ." She pulled out another shirt. "Colorado Avalanche T-shirt?"

Zarekael's gaze seemed to focus exclusively on the sleeves. "No."

"Any kind of T-shirt?"

"No."

"All right . . ." She pulled out another shirt. "How about a polo?"

Zarekael was beginning to show wry amusement. "No."

"Hm." Meli whipped through several other shirts, then pulled out a short-sleeved button-up. "This?"

"No."

"This one with longer sleeves?"

Zarekael's eyes narrowed in a subtle, mouthless, smile. "Yes."

"Ah-_ha_! Got it!" Meli traded the short-sleeved shirt for one of similar style and with long sleeves. It was a matte black, which she deemed fortunate; a light color would look terrible with Zarekael's pale complexion, and a bright one would draw too much attention to his eyes, which were eerie and noticeable enough as it was. "It'll need some alteration, of course, but once you're wearing it, we can figure out precise measurements."

Zarekael seemed suddenly uncomfortable. "Could I change in your bathroom?" he asked.

Meli shrugged with feigned flippancy. "Sure thing." She handed him the shirt and pointed him in the right direction.

Only after he was out of sight did she allow her brow to furrow slightly. It was an odd thing for him to request, she thought, but perhaps it was a cultural thing. He came from a more formal society—that much was evident; perhaps it was a serious breach of protocol to change shirts in front of a female.

He re-emerged a few minutes later, having already lengthened the sleeves and torso and broadened the shoulders. Meli eyed him critically, then nodded once. "It's very . . . you," she announced.

"Thank you," Zarekael replied dryly.

"And now for trousers." Meli turned back to the wardrobe. "Jeans are just too informal, both for that shirt and for you . . . Those are a _big _no-no—_never_ mix brown with black . . . Hmm. Maybe . . . Yes!" She whirled, a pair of black trousers in her hand. "These will _definitely_ need alteration for height, but they'll go perfectly."

"Do Muggle men and women dress alike?" Zarekael asked curiously, taking the proffered trousers.

Long practice kept Meli from blushing. "No," she replied. "I actually have a friend who's left his Muggle clothes with me while he's gone . . . elsewhere." She could only imagine the look on Collum Fell's face at the idea of Zarekael wearing—much less altering—his clothes.

Judging by his expression, Zarekael could tell that there was more to the explanation, but he chose not to inquire further. "A fortunate arrangement," was all he said, then he returned to the bathroom.

Meli felt a pair of eyes on her and turned to find Monty staring at her from his cage. Was it just her guilty conscience, or was his gaze actually accusing? She reasoned blithely that it must be the latter; in this area, at least, she really had no conscience. And if Monty disapproved, well, that was _his _problem.

She felt no need to give Zarekael either warning or preview of what she would be wearing to London; he would not, after all, receive advance notice of what the Londoners would be wearing. He might as well have a head start at adjusting to other people's outfits, she reasoned, so she was quite curious to witness his reaction or lack thereof, to _her_ errand-running costume when he arrived Saturday morning.

The first and most important principle Meli had learned about living among Muggles was to look as little like herself as possible while still _being_ herself. Her stock of Muggle clothes had two very clear categories as a result: dark clothing for everyday wear, and pastels and brights from the juniors department for special occasions—such as running errands in London.

She always wore her hair down; today she pulled it up in a ponytail. She never wore cosmetics; today she wore the full range, from foundation to three shades of blue eye shadow and everything in between. She always (when not keeping a low profile) wore nondescript dark colors; today she wore stonewashed blue jeans and a blue camo T-shirt. On looking in the mirror, she thought she looked very much like a pale-faced Smurf.

Zarekael, as she had expected, was not so startled at her appearance as to gasp or make some vocal exclamation; he merely raised his eyebrows and narrowed his eyes in amusement. "Shall we go?" he asked dryly.

Meli smirked. "But of course," she replied. "You don't honestly think I'd stay in dressed like this, do you?"

As it happened, Zarekael got a bit more culture shock than even Meli had anticipated, and in a concentration that she would never have expected. They arrived at the fabric store without incident, and since Meli already had a fairly good idea of what she needed, it was very little time at all before they stood at the cutting table.

It was there that their problems began.

The store clerk was not what Meli had come to consider a typical Muggle. She was rather overweight and wore a tight bare-midriff tank top sporting a badge that named her "Lydia B." Below this top was a filmy Indian skirt with bells sewn around the hem and sandals made of something like industrial hemp. Her hair was piled erratically atop her head, held in place with pins and combs studded with clear plastic beads intended to look like crystals. Jangling bracelets, multiple odd earrings in each ear, and a necklace with a strange amulet completed the ensemble, augmented further by a misty smile to rival Trelawney's.

_Uh-oh_, Meli thought, but there were no other clerks available. She glanced at Zarekael, then took a deep breath and presented her cloth for cutting. _Please, one of you, just keep your mouth shut._

Lydia soon proved that she would not be that one. She intuitively zeroed in on the fact that Meli was making a costume, and in between strange, adoring looks at Zarekael, she chattered about her own extensive costume wardrobe.

"I outgrew my wench costume," Lydia sighed at one point. "The blouse fit just fine, especially across the front, but the skirt didn't work anymore."

_Translation: The blouse was low-cut enough that she spilled out, so, beyond a nasty sunburn, it wasn't too terribly uncomfortable._

"So then"—here Lydia smiled flirtatiously at Zarekael—"I made up a gypsy costume, and that worked just fine. Since it's all scarves, I don't have to worry about outgrowing it at the waist!"

She was rewarded with stony silence.

"Now _this_ one, dear," she went on, oblivious, "is just _perfect_ for a gypsy costume." She held up a length of translucent blue across her chest and winked knowingly at Meli. "_Lord_, how _that_ gets attention!"

"No doubt," Meli replied dryly.

"Of course," Lydia continued, "you seem to have gotten at least one boy's attention already." She smiled at Zarekael again. "There's a hot fiancé you've got there, I must say."

Meli glared at her. "He is _not_ my fiancé," she said through her teeth, then immediately regretted it when Lydia's eyes lit up with glee.

The clerk leaned a bit too far over the table to hand Meli her cloth, and Zarekael was presented with an even more generous view than he'd had previously. "Are you Italian?" Lydia asked him huskily.

At this juncture, Zarekael looked down at Meli in a manner that bordered on pleading. _Think!_ she snapped at herself. _Come on, you champion liar, _think!

"Are you a Libra?" Lydia continued, leaning six inches further. She was practically prostrated on the table by the time Meli's mind re-engaged.

"He doesn't speak English!" she snapped, then picked up her fabric and turned toward the cash register. Zarekael followed, quite closely.

"Pity," Lydia sighed behind them. "We could have made beautiful music together. I love Italians." She sighed again.

"I'm feeling a dry heave coming on," Meli muttered viciously.

When they at last stepped out to the street, Zarekael looked mildly at her. "What does 'gypsy' mean?" he asked.

"In her case," Meli replied darkly, "it's an excuse to show far more skin that God ever intended for _anyone_ to show, least of all her. Synonyms in this particular case include 'slut', 'hussy', and 'hoochy-mama'."

"I see." Zarekael raised his eyebrows in wry amusement. "Where next?"

Their stop at the chemist's went a little better. Meli led Zarekael down a handful of aisles, pausing only long enough to compare prices between brands of makeup. Having filled her basket with the necessary cosmetics for her costume, as well as a few other indispensable items unavailable in Hogsmeade (namely, several bags of Doritos), Meli stepped rapidly to the front counter to pay.

Here, however, they hit another snag. The cashier, a scrawny youth no older than seventeen and no taller than five-foot-four-inches, was too busy staring up at Zarekael with mingled terror and awe to ring up Meli's purchases. After pointedly clearing her throat at the cashier several times, Meli silently appealed to Zarekael, who cleared his own throat.

The cashier jumped several feet in the air and came in for an uneven landing. "Ah, y-yes, sir?" he stammered.

"The lady is waiting for you to calculate her payment," Zarekael said wryly.

"Oh." The cashier glanced at Meli, then realization struck. "Oh!" He rapidly scanned everything, mis-scanning one bag of Doritos and a package of eye shadow, and ending up, as a result, quoting a total several pounds lower than was correct. When Meli pointed out the error, the cashier cowered as if afraid that Zarekael would bludgeon him to death.

It was several more minutes before the error was straightened out, and when she and Zarekael finally left, she had the impression that the cashier wilted in relief behind them.

"You certainly have a way with people," she remarked.

"Perhaps it was my breath," Zarekael rejoined.

"Well, if it is, you'll have to endure it," she retorted. "I'm not going back in there for Altoids."

They left the heaviest of Meli's purchases in a train station storage locker, then proceeded to lunch. Meli led the way to McDonald's, where she explained in an undertone just what everything on the menu was. She was sorely tempted to enlighten Zarekael with jokes about the "true" content of the food, but, not yet fully knowing his sense of humor, she refrained, considering that such a move might be counterproductive.

Zarekael ordered a super-sized Big Mac extra value meal, while Meli settled for a cheeseburger and water. The events of the morning had inspired her appetite to flee for its life, and she was afraid to speculate about what the afternoon would do to it.

She and Zarekael ate in silence for a few minutes before a very disturbing sound reached their ears. Two tables away, three teenage girls were giggling furiously.

"Oh, no," Zarekael said under his breath, but he had no time to say more; a shadow crossed their table.

Meli looked up to see a fourth girl, obviously also a member of the giggling club, standing there, teenage mischief dancing in her eyes. _Oh, no, indeed_, she thought sourly. The girl was perhaps fourteen and dressed like one of the Olsen twins. Everything about her smelled like a disaster waiting to happen.

"Um, hi," the girl said, somewhat shyly, to Zarekael.

Zarekael sighed and looked reluctantly up from his chips. "Hello."

"Um, I just wanted to say . . ." She turned to look back at her friends and started giggling. "My friend Breanna—the one in the blue shirt . . ." Breanna's shirt was in view, but her face was buried in her hands as she tried ineffectively to hide. "She thinks you're really hot."

Whatever the girls had been expecting, apparently it was not twin impassive looks. Zarekael seemed too nonplused to answer, and Meli was determined to get rid of the teeny-bopper without getting her hands dirty.

After one or two minutes of such silent treatment, the girl's smile slipped and her face went red. She backed away and made a break for her friends' table, no longer giggling.

"Perhaps we should have gotten lunch to take away," Zarekael suggested.

"Perhaps we should have brought an invisibility cloak," Meli growled. "I'm ready to leave when you are."

Meli's next stop was a dance supply store, where she bought a pair of leather-bottomed satin slippers and cobalt blue tights. Here Zarekael endured both fawning looks from female customers and the attention of a determined and aggressive sales representative who was under the mistaken impression that he wanted dance equipment, as well. Meli's verbal addresses to this individual went a long way toward demonstrating that her patience was wearing thin.

Next, Meli went to a shop to purchase dye for her white dance slippers. The clerk there was far too shrewd either to fear or to offend a prospective customer; Meli seriously considered leaving her a tip.

That mild relief was overridden and trampled when they entered a book shop. Books were ordinarily a refuge for Meli, but this time the clientele distracted both her and Zarekael from that prospect. By the time Meli successfully located and bought the book she needed, Zarekael had unintentionally sent three people cowering out of his way and had, also involuntarily, drawn veiled or overt passes from half a dozen females of varying ages.

Her major shopping finally done, Meli led Zarekael to a small Indian restaurant she'd stumbled over once. She again explained the menu to him, then devoted her attention to praying that they could eat in peace. She had retained enough of her appetite to justify eating, so she ordered lamb curry, then returned to her praying.

They had a pleasant, uninterrupted dinner, and they even drifted into conversation once it became clear that they would be left to themselves. Meli was just beginning to breathe freely as they stepped out on the pavement, but fate conspired to disillusion her. A group of university-aged girls walked past, stopped corporately to stare, then rushed away, all giggling uncontrollably.

Meli looked up at Zarekael and judged that he was badly in need of a drink; she could hardly blame him. Unfortunately, the nearest establishment with which she was familiar that was equipped with such supply was not a pub, nor was she in the mood to spend much time tracking one down. With a sigh and a silent, fervent hope that they would go unnoticed, she led Zarekael into a nightclub.

Loud techno music assailed them, accompanied by flashing lights of every color imaginable. People thrashed around the dance floor, most under the influence of chemicals legal or illegal to look at them, and those not on the floor were otherwise engaged at tables scattered throughout the club.

Zarekael looked nearly ready to fall over under the sensory assault. Meli sighed again and led him to an empty corner table, praying he would forgive her for bringing him to such a place.

"Any preference for your drink?" she hollered over the music.

He winced but shouted back, "I don't know. Something strong—_very_ strong." He looked around him. "I'm rather . . . stressed."

"I'm sorry to leave you," she sincerely apologized, "but I'll be back in ten minutes!"

He nodded stiffly, and she headed for the bar.

The barkeep, most unfortunately, was a blithering idiot. It took a near eternity to communicate to him what was meant by "amaretto sour" and "a double of scotch straight up." It was another near eternity before he returned with the scotch, and Meli's blood was beginning to boil by the time he arrived with a second drink.

"Your Sangria, miss," he said, plinking the glass down in front of her.

Meli's eyes first widened in horror, then, as the comprehension dawned that he was talking about the drink, narrowed in anger. "That is _not_ my drink!" she snapped. "I ordered an amaretto sour, you moron!"

It was another several minutes' work to convince him of the reality of his error, and by the time she actually left the bar with Zarekael's scotch and her amaretto sour, Meli was near her breaking point.

When she reached their table, she found there a ready target for her hostility. A criminally underdressed girl sat in a chair far too close to Zarekael for anyone's comfort, much less his. She giggled furiously—and drunkenly—as Zarekael caught Meli's eye and glared venomously.

The drunk girl leaned in close and hollered, "So what's your sign, honey?" directly into Zarekael's very sensitive and already overloaded ear.

He tried to pull away, but looked at her in puzzlement. "My sign?" he repeated flatly.

"His sign is Stop," Meli broke in, coming to the table and handing Zarekael his drink. He neither looked at it nor sniffed it but bolted it down directly.

The girl made a bleary attempt at a glare, then changed her mind and went instead for an exaggerated pout. "In case you haven't noticed, this table's full!" she sniffed. "I was here first, so bugger off!"

Meli, being stone-cold sober and on the teetering edge of her temper, was far more effective with her glare. "Well, _I_ came in with him, honeybunch," she snapped. "So why don't you go sniffing around in another barn loft?"

The other female ignored her, however, and leaned in to talk with Zarekael again. "You're a Libra, aren't you!" she yelled.

Meli downed her own drink in one swallow, then smashed the glass on the table directly in front of her friend's tormentor. Even Zarekael looked a bit surprised at that, but the girl nearly toppled off her chair dodging shards.

"Got your attention, have I?" Meli shouted over the music, arching an insulting eyebrow. "I'm only going to tell you one more time to **_go away!_**"

Her opponent smirked and reached over to stroke Zarekael's cheek and run her hand down his beard, causing him to stiffen almost to the point of rigor mortis. "I think it's pretty easy to tell which of us he prefers more," she slurred.

_Zarekael, I'm sorry to do this to you—_"Right!" she retorted, then held up her left hand to prominently display Andrew's ring. "Me!" She grabbed Zarekael around the wrist, shoved the drunk girl to the floor, and stomped out, half-dragging him behind her.

They were nearly two blocks from the club before she finally stopped and let go of his wrist. He couldn't have been too bothered, though; he was strong enough that he could easily have pulled away at any time. She slumped against a lamppost, seething.

After a moment, she got enough control of herself to look up. "I am _so_ sorry, Zarekael," she said through her teeth. "If I'd had any idea _that_ would happen, I would never have taken you anywhere near that place."

He raised an eloquent eyebrow. "Indeed," he said dryly. "I gather, then, that this is not normal Muggle behavior?"

She perceived his attempt to lighten the mood and strove to respond in kind. "What, for women to constantly throw themselves at you?" she replied. "No, not really."

They began walking slowly, and it was a moment before Zarekael spoke again. "Then what, pray tell, is it that makes me so irresistible today?" he asked.

Meli let out a snort of laughter, then turned to look appraisingly at him. Other than the basic mechanics of his appearance (pale face, freaky eyes, black hair, and really flippin' _big_), she'd never really considered his looks. "Well," she said after a moment, "I have to admit you're not terribly bad looking." She smiled mischievously. "And the ladies often go for tall, dark, and handsome . . . which, I will concede, you are."

Zarekael smirked. "Perhaps we should return tomorrow night, then," he suggested.

She looked sharply at him.

He caught her eye and raised his eyebrows. "And we should most certainly bring Severus," he continued smoothly. "They would greatly enjoy meeting _him_."

The mental image of Snape's reaction to the screwy antics of the club regulars and any woman stupid enough to make a pass at him was far too much for even Meli's restraint. She threw hack her head and laughed out loud, the sound of her full-bodied guffaws echoing up and down the street around them.


	12. The Halloween Ball

****

Chapter 12: The Halloween Ball

PRESENT: 31 OCTOBER 

Meli was walking slowly down the corridor when the unmistakable sound of fisticuffs sent her running around the nearest corner. She found Draco Malfoy and Ron Weasley facing off at the center of a crowd of students. Aside from being angered past the point of rational thought, Ron appeared unscathed, but Malfoy's left eye was blackened and beginning to swell shut.

_Great._ "_What_ is the meaning of this?" she roared, already pushing her way through the crowd. Ron and Malfoy spun to face her; not far away, she saw Harry and Hermione watching anxiously. She caught the eyes of all of them, then ordered, "You four, come with me."

She herded Malfoy, Ron, Hermione, and Harry to her office, then stood behind her desk with them lined up in front of her. "Now," she said through her teeth. "Explain."

Malfoy put on the worst mask of affected injury Meli thought she had ever in her life seen. "Weasley hit me," he sniffed. "For no reason at all."

Meli quelled Ron's protest with a look, then turned an unsympathetic eye on Malfoy. "Weasley has red hair and the temper to go with it," she allowed, "but he is not the sort to haul off and whack someone without provocation." She returned her gaze to Ron and arched an inquisitive eyebrow.

"He called Hermione a Mudblood," Ron fumed. "Said now that You-Know-Who's back, he'd probably be rewarded for hurting or killing her."

Meli looked now to Hermione. "Did he specifically threaten you?"

"No." Hermione shook her head disgustedly. "He doesn't have the gumption."

"Very well." Meli narrowed her eyes. "Mr. Weasley, please note that Gryffindor will suffer a five-point deduction for obvious reasons. Chivalry is honorable, but violence is not always the solution. In future, you will present your concerns to a teacher or your Head of House and leave discipline in the hands of the disciplinarians.

"Mr. Malfoy," she continued, turning to him with a fierce glare. "I suggest you wipe that disgusting smirk off your face. For your tastelessness, your cowardice, and your language, Slytherin will be docked twenty points, and your Head of House will be receiving a letter from me. After he has read it, I suspect you'll wish I had deducted two hundred points and not mentioned the incident. And if another report like this reaches my ears, I will propose to the headmaster that you be put on strict probation, suspended, or expelled. Is that clear?"

If looks could kill, Malfoy's expression would have served in excellent stead of a _Kedavra_ curse. "Yes," he answered, his voice sounding strangled.

"Good. You're all dismissed. I don't want to hear another bloody word about any of you, either good or bad, for the rest of the day."

**__**

She watched them go, a painful weariness settling over her. She'd have to draft a letter to Snape and speak with him as soon as possible, and she had also to speak with Madame Pomfrey immediately, on the subject of refusing Malfoy medical treatment for his shiner.

In the meantime, however, there was one small, irrelevant, item of humor to cheer her. _Single man, indeed, Ronald Weasley. Within ten years, you'll hand over a ring to Hermione Granger, or my name isn't Ebony._

Harry watched as Malfoy stormed off in the direction of the dungeons, unsure whether he was more glad that Ebony had been so harsh to the Slytherin or worried that Ron had not heard the last of her reprimand. It seemed that she had gone too easy on the Gryffindors, even though she _was_ a Gryffindor herself.

"Well, at least that's over with," Ron sighed, visibly relieved.

"Just don't you do it again," Hermione told him. "I can defend myself, you know. No sense in you getting into trouble on my behalf."

Before Ron could utter his defensive retort, Professor Ebony emerged from the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, as calm and collected as if she had just been to tea. She was not the only one to enter the corridor then, though; Peeves came out from behind a tapestry to launch a spitwad at her.

Ebony calmly drew her wand. "_Accio_ peashooter." It flew to her hand, which deftly caught it and broke it in half.

Peeves was not so easily put off. He zoomed and dove around the corridor, chanting shrilly: "Oh, Meli, you smelly old bowl full of jelly, there ought to be warnings about you on the telly! A man in a deli once emptied his belly at the stench from smelly old Meli!"

Ebony weathered the tasteless poetry without so much as batting an eye, but she watched Peeves intently, and when, at the end of his spiel, he made a dive for the wall, she again raised her wand. "_Substantia!_"

Before Harry's eyes, Peeves turned solid just as he came to the wall. The poltergeist slammed into it with a sickening thud, then fell like a rock to the floor.

Even then, Ebony wasn't finished. "_Petrificus totalus!_"

Peeves froze, unable to move even his vocal cords (or whatever it was that served for vocal cords in a substantial poltergeist) to howl in outrage. Ebony turned to Harry and his friends, bowed slightly, then resumed her stroll, stepping over the enraged Peeves as though he were nothing but debris.

Ron swallowed eloquently. "I'm glad she's on our side," he whispered.

Hermione seemed uncertain what to do. "We can't just leave him there . . . can we?"

"Are you suggesting we undo what a _teacher_ just did?" Ron retorted.

"Weell—"

"I think," Harry said, "that it's time we pulled out our costumes and got ready for the ball."

"Good idea," Ron agreed.

Hermione still hesitated, but at last relented, unwilling to get into trouble for helping Peeves against the mercurial Ebony's wishes.

Meli was glad that Malfoy chose to make a detour on his way to the hospital wing; it took her twenty minutes of heated argument to convince Madame Pomfrey not to treat him. The mediwitch, predictably, had an idea of necessary and proper discipline that was quite a bit different from Meli's, but she relented when Meli adjusted her request to one for temporary refusal of treatment until the following day. There was, after all, no need to torment Malfoy for a week or more; the Halloween Ball would more than suffice.

That negotiation at last completed, she left the hospital wing before Malfoy arrived and made her way to Snape's office by the most direct route. He was still there, sorting and stacking newly handed-in papers preparatory to grading them.

Meli rapped lightly at the door, drawing his eyes upward. "May I have a moment of your time, Severus?"

"Certainly." He stood, beckoning for her to enter and take a seat. Once she did, he sat again and raised his eyebrows slightly. "What can I do for you?"

She took a deep breath. "I wanted to give you fair warning that you'll be receiving a most unwelcome letter in about an hour's time," she replied.

His eyes narrowed. "Indeed?"

She briefly summarized the events that had just transpired, attempting to give equal time to all involved but probably, she acknowledged to herself, favoring the Gryffindors over Malfoy. Snape listened in silence until she finished.

"Coward that he is, Malfoy has clearly grown bolder since the Dark Lord's return," he observed darkly. "There are grounds for a reprimand to be added to his file; are you sure you hadn't rather do that?"

"I want it on record that I warned him first," Meli answered. "A letter to his Head of House will accomplish that. I have no doubt that he'll give reason for a reprimand or worse soon enough; as you say, he's grown bolder."

Snape nodded slowly. "And Lucius Malfoy will have fewer grounds for protest if there is a written record of a prior warning," he conceded. "It will also make clear that the matter is out of my hands—provided that you send a copy of it to the headmaster."

Meli gave him a small, cool smile. "Severus, I had no intention of doing otherwise," she replied. "However, for the sake of plausible deniability, I planned to keep you in the dark." She shrugged. "Trust a Slytherin to outthink a mere quasi-Slytherin."

"That has little or nothing to do with it," Snape countered. "There's a long-standing antipathy between Lucius Malfoy and me; as such, I prefer to avoid unnecessary conflict with him when at all possible, and so have trained myself to think in that direction at need."

"I find that simultaneously comforting and disturbing," Meli remarked. "But I do take your point. Both letters—the one addressed to you and the one you don't know anything about—will be written and filed in an hour."

"I await the one I know about with bated breath and eager expectation," Snape said sardonically, his expression deadpan.

"I can see that."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood near the entrance to the Great Hall, taking in the scenery and their numerous costumed classmates. Seamus had caused a small stir with his Leprechaun costume, effectively preventing another stir by upstaging Malfoy, who had come as a vampire but arrived to late to be noticed. Ron had noted with satisfaction that, though Malfoy had obviously made thorough use of white face paint, his black eye was still in evidence.

The ball had been fully underway for nearly an hour when something not on the program schedule took place anyway.

During a pause between songs, one door to the Great Hall creaked theatrically open and in pranced, of all people, Professor Ebony.

Her face was covered in blue and silver swirls of grease paint that gave her the look of a woodland imp akin to Puck or Ariel. She wore a black tank top, but it was nearly covered by fluttering strips of gauze and veil dyed nearly every imaginable shade of blue. The same was true of her skirt and the sheaths that she wore on her arms from elbow to wrist. She also had bright blue tights and slippers. Her black hair was pulled up in a topknot divided into tiny braids, each of which had one strand dyed blue. Around her wrists and ankles she wore bracelets with silver bells that jingled in rhythm to the song that she sang in a high, impish voice as she danced around toward the center of the Hall—to the amazement of all present.

__

Well, here I am amongst you,  
And we're here because we're here,  
And I'm only twelve months older than  
I was this time last year-aye-ah.  
With my toor-aye-ah,  
With my toor-aye-oor-aye-ey.  
Ride-a-lum with my toor-aye-ah,  
With my toor-aye-oor-aye-ey.

Catching sight of Malfoy, who was glaring furiously at her, Ebony leapt lightly to his side and proceeded to address the next stanza to him:

__

The more a man has, the more a man wants—  
The same I don't think true;  
I never met a man with one black eye  
That wished that he had two-ri-ah.  
With my toor-aye-ah,  
With my toor-aye-oor-aye-ey.  
Ride-a-lum with my toor-aye-ah,  
With my toor-aye-oor-aye-ey.

She proved to be an equal-opportunity irritant, however, for her next target was a knot of tired-looking Ravenclaws, around which she danced while singing:

__

Early to bed, early to rise—  
The same I don't think true;  
How the hell can you go to bed  
When you have none to go to-ri-ah?  
With my toor-aye-ah,  
With my toor-aye-oor-aye-ey.  
Ride-a-lum with my toor-aye-ah,  
With my toor-aye-oor-aye-ey.

Next, she popped up as if from thin air beside Seamus, on whose shoulder she leaned while singing him a stanza of sage advice:

__

Never throw a brick to a drownin' man  
If you're close to a grocer's store.  
Throw him a bar of Irish Spring,  
Let him wash himself ashore-aye-ah.  
With my toor-aye-ah,  
With my toor-aye-oor-aye-ey.  
Ride-a-lum with my toor-aye-ah,  
With my toor-aye-oor-aye-ey.

Having completed these verses, she spun comically to the center of the dance floor, stomped both feet, then stood still to silence her bells for her grand finale.

__

Oh, here I am amongst you,  
And we're here because we're here,  
And I'm only twelve months older than  
I was this time last year-aye-ah.  
With my toor-aye-ah,  
With my toor-aye-oor-aye-ey.  
Ride-a-lum with my toor-aye-ah,  
With my toor-aye-oor-aye-ey.  
Oh ride-a-lum with my toor-aye-ah,  
With my toor-aye-oor-aye-ey!

She finished with her arms up and her head thrown back in a pose that would have been greeted with appreciative laughter had she been almost anyone else. But the sheer absurdity of the display—the fact that cool, collected Professor Ebony was the one responsible for it—resulted instead in a dumbfounded silence as students and teachers alike pondered the probability that she had absolutely lost her marbles.

The moment lingered, but before it could become fully awkward, both doors to the Great Hall slammed open with a resounding boom. Everyone whirled to see the entrance of the last two late arrivals. Their heights betrayed them as Snape and Zarekael, but they were so covered in black armor that no confirmation of their identities was possible; their heads and most of their faces lay hidden under helmets. Their hands and forearms were sheathed in wickedly clawed gauntlets, and each strode purposely with his hand on the hilt of a long, elegant sword, an emerald cape lined with silver billowing like a cloud behind him. Students parted like the Red Sea to allow them passage, but the Potions teachers seemed to take no notice.

Ebony, meanwhile, squealed out a delighted "Ooh!", then sprang away from the center of the Hall to fall in directly behind Snape and Zarekael. She looked for all the world like a very tall child marching noisily, showily, and not very well, behind soldiers at a review. Still, for fear of the wrath of the most frightening and vengeful teachers in the school, no one dared to laugh.

In this manner the trio made their way to the food table. Snape and Zarekael silently took up stations flanking the punch bowl, but Ebony whirled and immediately started shooing students out of the way, still in a Puckish voice: "Move along, move along. Nothing more to see! You can go about your business—the show's over. Come on, move along, now!"

From his station next to the punch bowl, Snape had a fairly clear view of Meli's continued shenanigans. She was nothing if not creative and mischievous, more so even than the Shakespearean tricksters from whom she had drawn some of her inspiration. Students and teachers alike soon learned to duck out of the way when her wand came out, not so much to avoid her doing something to _them_ as to avoid whatever it was that she set into motion nearby. Colin Creevey didn't duck fast enough once, and before he could at all react, several streamers came to life, snatched away his camera, and spun away around the hall, snapping random photos as they went.

Another of Meli's wand-waves went unnoticed, though, until a Hufflepuff first year helped herself to a cup of punch. The cup didn't make it anywhere near her lips before she dropped it in shock, then reached out and pulled an iron rail spike out of the punch bowl.

"Who spiked the punch?" she demanded, quite puzzled by the laughter her unknowing pun elicited. She caught Snape and Zarekael looking at her, yelped, dropped the spike back into the bowl, and backed away, gulping.

_Only Meli_, Snape thought, smirking beneath his helmet.

Eventually, he and Zarekael abandoned the punch bowl and slowly circulated the room. Students were, for the most part, enjoying themselves, and Meli's antics contributed to the festive air—once people figured out how to separate in their minds this blue demon of mischief from the sarcastic, brooding Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor.

The fun and games lasted about an hour and a half. Then, just after nine-thirty, Snape saw Meli stiffen slightly in apprehension. She fixed her maniacal grin in place, but pivoted until she caught his eye. A warning shone in her gaze as she tucked her wand into her right arm sheath and started to spin, laughing rather disturbingly.

It appeared to everyone else to be just one more of her quaint Halloween tricks, but Snape soon saw the purpose behind the maneuver: As her arms flew out in a propeller-like motion, the crowd around her pulled back, leaving her room to fall and convulse.

Snape was already moving toward her when the seizure came. Fall she did, but with an insane force of will, she held her silence for a full two minutes or more before the pain finally ripped out of her in a scream. By the time that came, Snape had already reached her and started to pick her up. Her arms and legs flailed, striking his head and torso hard enough to bruise had he not worn armor; her scream, when it poured forth, was almost directly in his helmet-covered ear.

The claws on his gauntlets made it impossible for him to cradle her; the ferocity of her uncontrolled thrashing almost guaranteed that she would impale herself on one or more of them. Nevertheless, since he must get her out of the Great Hall and to the hospital wing as soon as possible, he caught her in a bear hug, then hefted her over his shoulder. His efforts were immediately rewarded with a sharp blow from her left fist that made his helmet boom like a Chinese gong, accompanied by a kick to his armor-shielded elbow that likely broke at least one of Meli's toes.

Students parted for him, so his progress to the doors was unimpeded. Out in the corridor, Zarekael joined him. The apprentice, he saw, was cradling the curled up, moaning, and more or less still Harry Potter, whose scar now burned a livid scarlet.

Meli, apparently, also caught sight of Potter. As Snape started a steady jog in the direction of the hospital wing, the refined-looking Professor Ebony dusted off and put into immediate use her profound vocabulary of gutter. Since she was still seizing, it came out in breathless, jostled shrieks, which produced an odd acoustical effect in the vault-ceilinged corridor—an effect that seemed somehow appropriate to the mood of the holiday. Snape wondered briefly what Zarekael, who had fallen in behind him, made of it. He did not think or even care what Potter thought.

When they were halfway to the hospital wing, Meli's initial seizure stopped, and she fell suddenly silent. Behind him, Snape could hear signs that Potter was still in pain, though, which indicated that Voldemort was not yet finished with whatever it was that he was up to.

"You know, I just can't seem to hold onto one identity this Halloween," Meli commented hoarsely.

Snape frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well, first I was going to be a sprite," she replied. "Then, at your suggestion, I changed to Cinderella. After the inherent error of that was pointed out to me, I went back to being a sprite. I thought it was settled for sure." She sighed. "But now I find myself as not a sprite but a sack of potatoes. _Why_, Severus? _Why_ can't I make up my mind?"

His answer was cut off by the onset of another seizure.

The episode itself had finished, but Meli still shook and twitched uncontrollably. She did not want to think about the mess she had left behind in the Great Hall—and she _really_ didn't want to think about food. She gritted her teeth as her stomach rumbled, then lurched in rebellion against itself. Her eyes had fallen out of focus; the world swam in a fog before them, until an upright figure stepped into her field of vision. She forced her eyes back into focus and recognized Professor Snape, _sans_ helmet.

"Hullo, Severus," she said hoarsely, then managed a wan smile. "I'm afraid I won't be able to teach tomorrow. I would love to, but I have a feeling Poppy won't allow it."

"Quite right," Poppy Pomfrey clucked from the doorway. "Unless you've discovered a miracle recovery technique in the time since you were a student here, there will be no getting past me!"

Meli narrowed her eyes in an expression that only the Skulkers should have recognized, but it seemed to her that Snape understood it perfectly, to judge by the smirk on his face. _Not surprising, really,_ she thought, _given that he's probably worn the same expression a few times himself._ "No getting past you, Poppy," she replied meekly. "I know not even to try. You're the boss."

The mediwitch nodded once, adamantly, then left to tend her other patient. Snape raised his eyebrows fractionally and regarded Meli with amusement.

"How is it, exactly, that you weren't Sorted into Slytherin?" he asked mildly.

Meli smirked. "I've got a bold streak to me that just wouldn't fit there," she replied. "I don't think we should talk about anything terribly important just now, though," she added, glancing at the door. "She may well throw you out if she thinks you're bothering me."

"It wouldn't bother you to talk about trifles?" Snape countered.

"Oh, nothing _too_ terribly frivolous," she amended. "No philosophy, for example . . ." She stared at a corner of the room for a moment, then slowly grinned. "I know. I'll teach you how to tell jokes."

Snape raised incredulous eyebrows. "You'll teach me _what_?!"

She looked mischievously at him. "Do you know that the students here think you don't have a sense of humor?" she asked by way of answering. "I think you should consider adding a stand-up routine to your lectures, just to prove them wrong. Now repeat after me: A werewolf, a vampire, and a boggart go into a pub."

Snape rolled his eyes but humored her. "'A werewolf, a vampire, and a boggart go into a pub.'"

"Ah, that's one of my favorites." Both turned towards the door to find that Dumbledore had silently appeared sometime during the conversation. "Though I do feel rather sorry for the poor boggart by the end."

Meli would have laughed, but laughter hurt too much. "Welcome to the hospital wing, sir," she rasped. "Sorry about that little row back there."

As improper as it probably was to make light of such a thing, she could not do otherwise. If she considered for too long what had actually happened to her—more to the point, what had actually happened to someone else—she would lose all semblance of control and break down weeping.

Dumbledore, thankfully, seemed to recognize this. He smiled gently, then pointedly closed the door. "Poppy probably feels that you should recover a bit more before I talk with you, but there are some things I must know as soon as possible."

"I understand." There was, apparently, no problem with Snape remaining to hear; she made no suggestion against it.

"I am sorry," Dumbledore said sincerely, "but I must ask: Do you know who it was?"

Meli swallowed, though she had expected the question. "I've never heard his screams before," she replied. "It was a man, though, and a former Death Eater, to judge by the way he went about begging for his life." She frowned. "He wasn't British or American. There was a distinguishable accent—Continental, possibly East European."

Snape and Dumbledore exchanged looks. Silence reigned a moment, then the former said, "Karkaroff." 

Dumbledore nodded slowly, then turned back to Meli.

"No, sir, he did not survive," she told him before he could ask. "Voldemort killed him just after Severus brought me here." She shuddered, the violent motion sending spasms of reaction through her frame. _What a mess I am_, she thought irrelevantly. _All a-tremble, as if _I'd_ been the one tortured._ She chose to ignore the fact that she _had_ been tortured; she was better off than Karkaroff, after all.

"A second question, then," Dumbledore said after a moment. "Is there anyone you wish us to notify about your seizure?"

She furrowed her brow. "Everyone who could be safely notified already knows," she answered. "I would ask, of course, that the _Daily Prophet_ not be notified, but that's less a request and more wishful thinking. The students can hardly be expected to keep quiet, and there are plenty of parents of whom the same is true."

"Fortunately, the only reporter who might be expected to run with such a story has recently retired," Dumbledore said grimly. "And there are ways of keeping a sensation from spreading too much, some of which I have already put into motion." He smiled again, and some of the customary twinkle returned to his eye. "Rest assured, Meli, it was all taken into account even before you interviewed to teach here."

"It comforts me to know that."

Behind Dumbledore, the door opened to admit a frowning Poppy. "Gentlemen," she said disapprovingly, "you are disturbing my patient. Professor Ebony needs _rest_, not questions."

Meli smiled. "In addition to rest, Professor Ebony could also use a good stiff shot of Glenlivet," she remarked. "I don't suppose you've brought one, Poppy."

Her attempt to lighten Poppy's mood did not come off well. The mediwitch smirked, then pulled from behind her back a vial of nasty-looking purplish-brown semi-fluid. "No, but I brought you something that'll do you even more good," she replied.

"Looks like cough syrup," Meli said off-handedly, carefully masking the nausea that swept over her. She knew that particular potion; she _avoided_ that particular potion at all costs. That particular potion was laced—no, thoroughly saturated—with sugar. Her grandfather's house elf had given it to her on more than one occasion. "You wouldn't happen to have picked up the wrong container by chance?"

"Oh, no, Professor Ebony, it's the right one," Poppy assured her. "And remember what you said not ten minutes ago: I'm the boss."

_You're only the boss when you being the boss allows me to fake a more thorough recovery and get out a day early,_ Meli thought miserably. _The last time _anyone_ compelled me to take in anything sweet, it was Dumbledore, and that was only because he didn't know at the time what sugar does to me!_

"Is there any chance I could get a different pain potion?" Meli asked, doing her best to sound more polite than panicked.

Poppy frowned. "The only other one I've got ready at hand is for minor aches, which in your case would be the same as taking water."

"Ah, yes. I see your point." Meli debated whether or not she should request no pain potion at all, but going that route—even if Madame Pomfrey agreed to it, which was by no means a foregone conclusion—meant no sleep for the next several hours. If she was to be fit to teach the day after next, she needed her rest.

"Besides," Madame Pomfrey continued, "this particular potion's not so bad. It's very sweet going down."

To judge by the look on Snape's face, Meli must have paled visibly. She reached out to take the proffered dose, however, and forced it down, her strength of will and probably Divine intervention working to keep her from vomiting it back up again.

_And they wonder why I self-medicate!_ she thought darkly, handing the vial back to Poppy. There were any number of perfectly reasonable alternative pain relievers . . . but they were all in bottles lined up on the worktable in her quarters. And as long as Poppy was "the boss", there would be no sneaking out to retrieve them.

Ron and Hermione huddled in an alcove near the hospital wing, waiting for an opportunity to sneak in and see how Harry was doing. Zarekael had easily outpaced them, and in any case, they had wanted to avoid being seen by either him or Snape.

"That was really creepy," Ron whispered. "Did you hear her start screaming right after Harry dropped?"

Hermione nodded. "And Snape and Zarekael were both close by when it started," she whispered back.

"There are rumors that Ebony has fits like that a lot," Ron told her. "Not always when Harry's scar bothers him. Parvati saw her once just before dinner, on the floor like that. You think it was just a coincidence tonight?"

"Maybe," Hermione allowed. "But I don't think it was a coincidence about Snape and Zarekael. They seemed to know something was coming—Zarekael picked up Harry almost as soon as it started, and Snape caught Ebony before she even screamed."

An odd connection formed in Ron's mind. "Do you think maybe Snape caused it?" he asked. Catching Hermione's opaque look, he shrugged, then continued. "Think about it. Snape hasn't liked any of the Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, and we _know_ he wants the job for himself. He's gone up against the different teachers in different ways; maybe this is his way of trying to get rid of Ebony."

"By making her fall down screaming?" Hermione countered skeptically.

"By making her look crazy or out of control," Ron corrected. "All it took to get rid of Lupin was the rumor that he's a werewolf. If Ebony actually falls apart in public, how much more likely is it that she'll be gone?"

"It makes some sense," Hermione conceded reluctantly.

"And if Snape gets to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, Zarekael can take over his Potions classes. It'd be a sensible arrangement on the surface—easier than having to look for a new teacher right away."

"We'd have to learn some more," Hermione said. "I've never heard of any spell that could cause such a fit, other than the Cruciatus, and it still doesn't explain what happened to Harry." She furrowed her brow. "Besides, Snape would've had to release the curse to pick her up—he wasn't holding his wand. That means it can't have been the Cruciatus, or any other relatively simple curse either."

Ron shrugged again. "Well, obviously there's more to it than we've figured out so far."

"But I suppose it's worth checking out." Hermione peeked past the wall of their alcove. "Here come Snape and Zarekael."

They fell silent until the armor-clad Potions teachers had moved past, their footsteps eventually fading away, then ducked out of the alcove and slipped up the corridor to their destination.

Harry lay quietly in a hospital bed, his scar still a livid red. A recently emptied glass sat on his bedside table next to a bottle of pain potion; Madame Pomfrey was nowhere in sight. Ron and Hermione crept quietly over to Harry's bedside, keeping the bed between themselves and the far end of the room, whence Madame Pomfrey was most likely to appear.

"Hullo, Harry," Ron murmured.

Harry grinned tiredly. "Hullo," he replied. "Am I glad to see you." He frowned suddenly. "Any idea what happened to Ebony?"

Ron and Hermione exchanged glances. "We have a rudimentary theory," the latter told him, then quickly explained Ron's hypothesis.

"It can't hurt to look into it," Harry said, then flicked his eyes to one of the private rooms in the back. "And if you're right, it may well help." He suddenly frowned. "But one thing doesn't make sense: Snape and Ebony are friends . . . aren't they?"

****

1 SEPTEMBER 1980, SECOND YEAR

Dumbledore had announced at the end of the previous term that Professor Mediocritus Brewer, the Potions teacher, would be retiring. Meli had not been sorry to see the man go; in her mind, he was a terrible instructor and a thoroughly disagreeable person. In the excitement of the summer holidays, however, she had forgotten to speculate about the person who would replace Brewer and what quality of teacher that individual might prove to be.

Now, though, as she and the other Skulkers entered the Great Hall, she remembered and wondered briefly.

The answer, seated stiffly at the head table, stopped her in her tracks. Collum and Sharpie were ahead of her, but Crim, walking beside her, noticed the lapse immediately and also stopped, arching an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Meet me at eleven tonight," Meli said under her breath, then resumed her pace as though nothing had happened. Outwardly, she forced herself to appear impassive and calm, but beneath that façade, her thoughts were careening nearly out of control.

Dumbledore was no fool, not by any definition of the word. He could not be unaware of the extracurricular status held by the new Potions teacher, could not have been fooled even had the man appeared to be an angel—which he manifestly did _not_. He had to know what he had hired; why, then, in heaven's name, had he hired him?

_Unless he's a spy,_ Meli thought hopefully. _Dumbledore would know about that, too . . . and I _know_ Voldemort doesn't know the headmaster well enough to think he knows everything. So if he's a spy, Dumbledore would know, but Voldemort would have no reason to suspect that Dumbledore knows; he'd just think his man was a particularly good sneak—or even a spy working for _him_ instead of the Ministry._

That thought, comforting in theory, was not so comforting in practice. The new Potions teacher felt her eyes on him, shifted his gaze to meet hers—

And to Meli's shock, the back of her neck did not go cold. Instead, an odd sensation tiptoed eerily up and down her spine. She had had such a reaction to a Death Eater before, but not to this one; that Death Eater had been a woman. However, it had, she admitted, been some time since she had last encountered this one, and he had often been around that other Death Eater. That might, perhaps, have something to do with it.

Perhaps.

The teacher, meanwhile, appeared to recognize her, for, though he showed no dramatic reaction, his eyes widened just noticeably. They rested first on her face, which she knew must be burned into his memory, then on the House crest emblazoned on her robe. His eyes narrowed back to their normal size again, but she had the clear impression that he, too, thought her mis-Sorted.

Meli sat down at the Gryffindor table and turned her eyes to the plate in front of her for the duration of her time in the Great Hall. Not a syllable of the Sorting Ceremony reached her ears, nor did any of Dumbledore's customary start-of-term announcements, nor even the prim banter from Nearly-Headless Nick. She ate nothing and drank little, her mind a world away from Hogwarts.

At eleven precisely, Crim slipped out of the shadows near the entrance to the kitchens and joined Meli just outside the Hufflepuff common room. Given the Skulkers' public disdain for that particular House, it made perfect sense for them to use its entrance as a meeting place; no one would think to look for them there.

"Greetings and felicitations," Crim said quietly. "To what do I owe the honor of this interview?"

Meli raised her eyebrows. "Have you been reading the dictionary again, Crimson?"

Crim grinned. "Can you blame me?" she countered. "I spent the whole summer trapped in the same house as Collum and"—she shuddered—"Donald the Hufflepuff."

"Oh, is that where he ended up?"

Crim looked narrowly at her. "You really _were_ spooked, weren't you."

"I suppose so," Meli conceded.

"All right, then. What happened?"

Meli took a deep breath. "The new Potions teacher, Snape—I know him."

Crim's expression suddenly hardened. "From . . . before," she clarified.

"Yes."

"Then he's—"

"I don't know," Meli broke in. "I used to have the same reaction to him as to all the others, but I didn't tonight; it was something different." She shook her head. "I can't explain it, really, but it wasn't at all the same. There was another—"

Crim abruptly snapped her head around to look towards the kitchens.

"Someone's coming," she hissed. "It's not Filch, but it's not a student, either."

"Then I'll see you at breakfast," Meli breathed, already fading back into the protective shadows and slinking away toward Gryffindor.

Crim, too, hid herself, but curiosity held her in place a little longer as the footsteps drew nearer. That they belonged to a teacher was quite obvious, but they were different from any pattern of footsteps she'd yet encountered while out after hours.

She watched in silence, therefore, as the teacher came at last into sight. From the height and build, it was obviously a man, and his graceful bearing implied someone of better-than-average breeding. He was robed entirely in black.

He passed through a ray of moonlight shining in through a window high in the wall above where Crim stood, and that light revealed a lean, pale, aristocratic face out of which glittered black onyx eyes and which was framed by greasy black hair. Those glittering eyes moved quickly and efficiently back and forth, taking in every inch of the corridor around him. Crim held her breath and stood perfectly still, coolly admiring Professor Snape's thorough search even as she was relieved that it was not quite thorough enough. What had brought him to the Hufflepuff corridor she had no way of knowing for certain, but she had the sinking feeling that she had not been quite careful enough in leaving the dungeons an hour earlier.

Snape, unlike Slytherin's former Head, was an adept skulker in his own right—something that she and Sharpie especially would do well to keep in mind from now on.

She watched as Snape once more scanned the corridor and slinked away, then, once his footsteps faded, she slipped away in the other direction and made her way as rapidly and silently as possible back to Slytherin House. She made it there without incident and slipped inside—

To find Professor Snape waiting for her in the common room beyond.

A Gryffindor would have tired to come up with some suitable excuse for being out after hours; Crim had no affinity for such attempts at moral justification. She was caught, and her energy would be put to much better use talking her way out of a punishment. Even before the shock of the encounter had fully worn off, she was settling into conversational mode.

"Good evening, Professor Snape," she said smoothly. "I hope the evening finds you in good health and high spirits?

To her untrained eye, Snape looked as though he might be mildly amused, but at this stage she was unwilling to risk a further snarky remark.

"I believe I'm entitled to know what you were doing outside the kitchens when you are supposed to be asleep," Snape said calmly, crossing his arms.

"Outside the kitchens . . ." Crim darted her eyes back and forth. "I, um, dropped a quill there earlier this evening, and I didn't want to be seen in such close proximity to Hufflepuff." _Give a lame lie first. That way, the second, more artful lie will be far more likely to be believed._

Snape smirked slightly. "Which, naturally, begs the question of why you were there earlier this evening," he countered. "And I'm rather saddened to observe, Miss Fell, that you lie like a Gryffindor."

_Trying to outwit Snape is going to be _thoroughly_ enjoyable_, Crim thought gleefully, even as she lowered her eyes in genuine-looking shame. "Were I a Gryffindor, sir, I would be foolish enough to blame my brother's influence for that particular shortcoming," she said. "However, as a Slytherin, albeit a pathetic one, I'm perfectly willing to accept responsibility for my failings and vow not to get caught at it again."

"How fortuitous that you think so far ahead," Snape replied dryly. "But for the moment, I'm still waiting for the truth about your nocturnal adventure."

_Indeed, it _is_ fortuitous that I think ahead._ Crim managed a weak smile as she pulled from her pocket six chocolate biscuits and a pumpkin scone lifted not five hours before from the dinner table. "The truth is, sir, that . . . I've a notorious sweet tooth," she lied ruefully.

Snape surveyed the sticky handful with a pained countenance. "You risked a detention and a point deduction from Slytherin for _biscuits_?!"

Crim swallowed. "Or perhaps . . . perhaps I'm worse than a Gryffindor," she nearly whispered, slowly returning the contraband to her pockets. "I'll go pack my trunk, sir; it's clear I belong in Hufflepuff." She started to shuffle toward the tunnel to the girls' rooms, letting out a convincing sniffle as she went.

"Miss Fell." Now she was sure of the amusement in Snape's voice.

She turned to him with eyes threatening tears. "Yes, sir?" she rasped.

The Potions master sighed. "I begin to doubt I'll ever extract from you your real reason for being abroad, but I likewise doubt that there is even the barest trace of either Gryffindor or Hufflepuff in you." He raised his eyebrows a bit. "After you've handed over the contraband, you _will_ go to bed and not leave Slytherin again until breakfast time tomorrow."

Crim smiled slowly, then handed him the now-gooey biscuits and the scone.

"And," Snape continued, as Crim wiped her hands on her robe, "you will also spend tomorrow morning in the Potions classroom, helping me clean out cauldrons and beakers."

She half-bowed. "I'd be honored, sir."

"Finally, there is the matter of points."

Crim swallowed. "A popular amount is thirty," she said, managing to keep her tone even. "At least, that's Professor McGonagall's standard."

Snape shook his head. "I'm not sure that your performance was _quite_ so brilliant," he countered. "I believe it was worth a full ten, however."

"I understand." _It's still a stiff penalty, and well worth an in-House hazing at the start of term._

Snape looked thoughtful. "If you had actually left me _convinced_ that you belonged elsewhere, you might instead have earned fifty once I learned the facts of the matter."

Crim's head shot up. "_Earned_, sir?"

"You don't honestly believe I'd _take_ points from my own House, do you?"

Once more, a slow smile crept across her face. "I stand corrected, sir." She glanced over his shoulder at the clock. "However, perhaps it's time I was where I'm supposed to be."

"Indeed."

Crim made it safely to her bed without further incident, quietly charmed away the chocolate stains on her robe and hands, then at last lay down to sleep. _I hope Snape sticks around for a few years,_ she thought cheerfully. _The Skulkers need practice at fooling a _true_ Slytherin, and if we do get caught, he'll let it go if we're suitably slick about it._ She smiled. _Which, of course, we will be._

Unfortunately, Crim was forced to reevaluate her opinion of Snape two days later on the first day of class. As in the previous year, Slytherin and Gryffindor were grouped together for Double Potions, and while some antipathy toward Gryffindor must be expected from the Head of Slytherin House, Snape went far above and beyond the call of duty—particularly with one specific Gryffindor, who also happened to be Crim's best friend.

Snape began the period by calling roll, and he flanked the name "Stafford, Meli" with a pause and a glare on either side of it. Meli, who had never been especially expressive (her face had only three settings to Crim's knowledge: impassive, solemn, and occasionally terrifying when she smiled), met his gaze without flinching and betrayed absolutely no emotion whatsoever. From the corner of her eye, Crim saw Collum gulp visibly. Beside her, Sharpie watched the display with interest, but he gave no clue that he at all cared. Crim herself effortlessly mirrored Meli's countenance, but inwardly, her heart was sinking.

_Why does the coolest teacher I've ever had _have_ to be a necessary adversary?! It just isn't fair . . ._

Nor did matters improve after roll-call.

In the other Skulkers' eyes at least, Meli was a Potions genius, an academic star who managed to excel in that class, despite Brewer's ineptitude as a teacher. No one could brew a forgetfulness potion or a shrinking draft like she could, and not all of that skill came from training prior to Hogwarts. Unfortunately, Snape appeared to believe differently, or so it seemed as class progressed.

Today, he started them out with a simple medicinal brew so that he could "evaluate existing knowledge and ability"—by which everyone understood that he meant he was evaluating the extent of the late Brewer's inadequacies as an instructor. This particular potion required no delicate balance of temperature or ingredients—indeed, there were only five basic ingredients, only one of which was a liquid. By rights, everyone, second years though they might be, should have been able to whip it up with no mistakes in the minimum required time.

That, however, presupposed that the dark and forbidding Potions master was not busily breathing down everyone's necks just waiting for a mistake to be made. He made only a token effort to intimidate the Slytherins, of course, but he was thoroughly (though silently) brutal to the Gryffindors, and Crim could not help but notice that his favorite station was directly behind Meli, staring down at the perfectly straight part in her black hair.

Meli was, to all appearances, perfectly impervious to this invasion of her space, but Collum, whose cauldron was next to hers, did not fare so well. His hands shook visibly every time he was obliged to move them, and then he made two errors that, by themselves, would have done little harm, but when combined produced disastrous results. Intending to add porcupine quills, he accidentally grabbed ground adder fangs and poured in a generous measure, then, imagining Snape's malevolent eye to be on him, he sweat even more profusely, and several drops of it fell directly into his simmering brew.

Adder fangs, as Meli could doubtless have explained, were not particularly reactionary things most of the time. However, when combined with either oil or salt—both of which sweat contains—at certain temperatures, they tended to become rather grumpy, sometimes explosively so; this, naturally, was one of those times.

Meli obviously caught some auditory signal of the potion's sudden discontent, for she whipped her head around, saw the contents of Collum's cauldron violently frothing, and hollered for everyone to get down. She collared Collum and hauled him to the floor as their classmates ducked for cover . . . but in her haste, she tumbled backwards, mowing down Snape in the process. Bare seconds later, the cauldron blew, spewing forth its contents to shower everyone within a ten-foot radius. The cauldron itself was decimated and settled throughout the room in the form of nasty, thick, damp pewter dust.

Everyone remained under cover for an uncertain moment, then slowly emerged, coughing on the dust and searching for the culprit. Snape was the first on his feet, in spite of his having landed beneath two students and a stool, and he pulled both of those students up by their robes as he stood.

Crim swallowed and caught Meli's eye, but the other girl seemed suddenly quite apathetic and detached.

"Fell, you fool!" Snape roared, eliciting what looked suspiciously like tears from the usually indomitable Collum's eyes. "What in the name of _Merlin_ did you do?"

Collum, normally smooth enough to come up with a mollifying reply to _anything_, could not even formulate a coherent syllable in answer. Crim was thunderstruck; Snape was infuriated. The result was an immediate loss of fifty points from Gryffindor.

And then the Potions master turned on Meli. "As for you, Miss Stafford," he said through his teeth, "how could you have known what was coming unless you had something to do with it?" It was an unjust question, and everyone present, especially Snape, knew it.

To the wonderment of all, though, Meli's only reply was to raise mild, uncaring eyebrows. It was the first time she had not given a teacher _some_ answer, either serious or sarcastic, in her brief time at Hogwarts.

Crim watched Snape closely to see how he would react, but what she saw was not entirely what she had expected. For a brief fraction of a second, something like recognition and surprise flickered through his glittering eyes, and he actually seemed to hesitate . . .

But then the moment passed, unnoticed by anyone but Crim and possibly Meli, and Snape's gaze hardened once more. "Ten points from Gryffindor for your insolence," he snapped, then turned loose both Collum and Meli. "You'll all have to discard your potions," he told the class. "They've been contaminated beyond use. You will re-brew them tomorrow, in addition to your next daily potion. You can thank Fell and Miss Stafford for that."

Crim found Meli serenely eating her lunch shortly after Double Potions. To all appearances, the Gryffindor had had a thoroughly uneventful morning and was preparing for a thoroughly uneventful afternoon. Collum—no surprise—was nowhere to be found.

_I'm almost afraid to bring this up . . . _Crim thought. _But that was just _too_ weird._

She sat down beside Meli at the Gryffindor table. To her delight (for several reasons), every other 

Gryffindor within spitting distance immediately moved further down the table and out of earshot. _I love being a Slytherin._

Meli, far from being intimidated, laid down her fork and knife and looked up mildly. "My, what an awe-inspiring presence you have," she said dryly. "Might you be willing to share with me the secret of your technique?"

Crim smirked. "Actually," she replied in an undertone, "you seem to have quite the technique yourself, at least with certain members of the faculty."

"Only one, I assure you," Meli said calmly. "He probably won't be so readily and openly hostile again, but that isn't at all due to any 'awe-inspiring presence' on my part."

"What, then—if you don't mind my asking."

Meli's eyes hardened as they always did when she dredged up memories dating back more than a year. "It's his own memory that stopped him," she answered. "He's seen me act like that before."

Crim leaned in close. "You mean . . . with You-Know-Who?" she whispered.

Meli nodded. "I didn't do it intentionally," she murmured back. "It's just that . . . well, when someone tries to frighten or intimidate me, the only thing I can think of to do is to show him that he _can't_. It doesn't matter who it is, Snape or Voldemort or McGonagall . . . they can't faze me. It's just not in me to let them do it."

Crim smirked. "You realize that you've just put McGonagall under the same heading as You-Know-Who."

Meli offered her a crooked smile. "And I notice you've done nothing at all to contradict me," she countered, then sobered again. "Snape doesn't trust me anymore than I trust him; I can't say that I blame him."

"You're a Gryffindor who told You-Know-Who to cram it," Crim hissed. "What more does he want?"

Meli shrugged. "Proof that I'll stick to that?" she suggested. "Remember, Crim, the point of torture is to wear someone down until he surrenders. I've had a year and a half of seizures, and only God knows how many more years of them ahead of me. Snape's concern is legitimate."

"Is it well-founded, though?" Crim countered. "I don't pretend to know everything about you, but I don't take you for the type who'd turn."

Meli shook her head. "Of all the Skulkers, Sharpie and Collum would turn long before I ever will," she answered. "Probably you, too; I'm just too contrary to turn at Voldemort's demand, no matter what he puts me through."

"Then we don't have anything to worry about," Crim said. "Because even if the others go—which they won't—I never will. Not after what that prick did to you."

Meli smiled again. "What a thing to call Voldemort," she remarked. "I'll have to file that one away for future comedic reference."

"Now who's been reading the dictionary?" Crim snickered. She sobered, though, as another thought occurred to her. "It's too bad about Snape not liking you, though; he's really cool otherwise."

"How do you know?"

Crim smirked again, then gave a brief narrative of her late-night conversation with the Head of Slytherin House. Meli was a touch alarmed but overall appropriately amused by the story.

"Skulking will be an especial challenge from now on," she observed. "But as long as neither Collum nor I get caught, the punishment shouldn't be _too_ terribly severe."

Crim groaned quietly. "Relying on the _Gryffindors_ not to get caught? We're doomed for sure!"

"The other option is for me to call Snape's bluff," Meli said smoothly, not quite meeting the other girl's eye.

"And what bluff is that?"

The Gryffindor offered her a reptilian smile. "Let him know that I know what he's really about," she replied. "But I daren't do that until I know for certain that he's not . . ."

_A Death Eater_, Crim finished silently. Even with no one eavesdropping, certain things were best left unsaid in the Great Hall. She cleared her throat, then ventured to ask, "And how long do you suppose that'll take?"

"Longer than I'd like it to," was all the answer Meli would make.


	13. Halloween Fallout

****

Chapter 13: Halloween Fallout

****

PRESENT: NOVEMBER

Defense Against the Dark Arts on November 1 was a complete and utter nightmare. With Professor Ebony still in the hospital wing, it was a foregone conclusion that Snape would be teaching in her place, and no one who concluded it was proven wrong. Directly after lunch, the fifth year Gryffindors arrived at Ebony's classroom to find Snape already there, haunting the room like an angel of death. He seemed in an even worse temper than usual, and there was little reassurance to be found in the note, in Ebony's handwriting, tacked to the classroom door. Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged pensive looks, then took their seats.

There was cold silence in the room for a seeming eternity while Snape took the time to glare at each student individually. The mood was altered somewhat by a raised hand.

"Yes, Miss Allen?" Snape enunciated, the words dangerously clipped.

Jessie Allen swallowed, but didn't back down. "I was just wondering . . . how Professor Ebony's doing."

"Professor Ebony is recovering as quickly as may be expected," Snape answered cryptically. "She may return to teaching as early as tomorrow; she will definitely be back by the day after." He glared at the class as if daring them to cheer. No one took the bait. "Now," he continued, "you should all have with you your de Morte text books."

There was a sound of wild scrambling as everyone pulled out and opened the indicated book.

"Turn to page two hundred seventy-three," Snape ordered. "We start today on Chapter Seven: Deadly Curses."

Ron caught Harry's eye and swallowed eloquently. Ebony had told their class that this was their most difficult text; she had promised to lead them slowly through the material. This was starting to look just like Snape's lecture on werewolves two years before— out of order and completely unnecessary and cruel.

Sure enough, Hermione raised her hand. "But Professor Snape, we've only just finished Chapter One—"

"I directed you to Chapter Seven, Miss Granger," Snape snarled. "Our lesson is in Chapter Seven, and any further challenges on the subject will result in point deductions from Gryffindor."

So chastened, even Hermione relented. Snape put them through a thoroughly miserable hour, lecturing on the different families of deadly curses, some of which were quite disgusting. During an overview of the Sangriatus series, in the middle of a graphic description of the Sangriatus Venarupturum Explosivus, Neville emptied out his lunch on the floor, prompting a loss of ten points and a hissy fit from Snape. The overview of the Suffocatus series caused Parvati and Lavendar to hyperventilate, leading to another twenty point dock.

By the end of the lecture, everyone was actually looking forward to Double Potions the following period, but even that faint ray of hope was threatened by clouds when Snape announced their homework.

"By class time tomorrow, you are to have read the first quarter of Chapter Seven, up through the Suffocatus series. You will also write an essay three to five scrolls in length discussing and summarizing each of the five series thus far covered in your reading and the lecture."

It was a dismal procession down to the dungeons, with only a few sparks of anger to keep it at all alive. Ron was one such spark.

"It's an insult!" he fumed. "Chapter Seven is over a hundred pages long, and he thinks we'll have time to get a quarter of it read and written on by class tomorrow?! What's he playing at?"

"Seems like he's just being his usual self," Dean said glumly. "Remember what it was like when he taught for Lupin?"

"Lupin always canceled Snape's assignments, though," Harry pointed out. "I'm not sure Ebony will."

"Why not?" Ron retorted. "She's reasonable, isn't she? Snape just did it to spite us—it's not as if she'd have assigned it."

"Better safe than sorry," Hermione declared firmly. "I'm going to do it, just in case."

"I'm not," Ron muttered. "It's a point of honor."

Dean and a few others were nodding their agreement. Ron looked to Harry.

Harry bit his lip. "But Ron, if Ebony really does want us to do the work . . ." He trailed off again, visions of her temper dancing in his memory; he did _not_ want to see her angry again. Even Dudley had cowered in fear for weeks after Ebony had lost it one day. "Trust me," he said after a moment. "It's better safe than sorry."

Ron was disgusted. "Oh, sure, take Hermione's side," he growled as they entered the dungeons proper.

"I'm not taking anyone's side," Harry protested. "I'm just saying this isn't necessarily the same as it was before."

"Well, fine. You do it, then," Ron huffed. "I've got better things to do with my life, thanks."

Harry looked at Hermione and shrugged. She seemed torn between exasperation at Ron and something else—jealousy, perhaps? Could it be that she was jealous of someone whose conscience permitted him to write off some homework assignments?

"Don't worry," Harry murmured to her as they sat down at a worktable in the Potions room. "I have a feeling you're right this time."

She smiled gratefully, then set to work copying down the day's potion, which Zarekael had already laid out on the board.

That evening, Harry was at first hard-pressed not to look on jealously as the other fifth-year Gryffindors sat talking and laughing and playing games while he and Hermione read about deadly curses. The reading went a bit faster than anticipated, though, and the Sangriatus series alone contained more than enough information for five scrolls. There were five basic curses to that family, and any number of colorful embellishments for each of them.

"What _I_ don't understand," Hermione remarked as they were penning their essays, "is why Sangriatus Vomitum isn't part of the Vomitus family. I mean, you _are_ vomiting blood, but it's still vomit."

Harry clenched his teeth as his stomach roiled. "Could we change the subject?" he asked faintly.

Hermione glanced his way, did a double-take, then smiled in chagrin. "Oh. Sorry." Her eyes darted across the room to find Ron, who was in the middle of an animated game of wizard's chess. "D'you suppose any of them checked with Ebony to see if the assignment's genuine?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't think so," he replied. "Except for the skipping to Chapter Seven part of it, I could see her assigning this. Besides," he added as a stray thought clicked, "she and Snape seem to be friends. Even if he took a liberty with the lecture, I could see her backing him up on it."

Ron, as if sensing that they were watching him, looked up at waved smugly. Hermione leveled a fierce glare at him, and he suddenly immersed himself in his game again. "How's she likely to react if we're the only ones handing in homework?" she asked.

Harry swallowed, remembering the first of three times he'd seen Ebony's temper go off in class. "Depends on her mood," he said. "In the best possible case . . . she'll be like Snape was in class today."

Hermione's eyes widened. "And the worst-case scenario?" she prompted, her tone indicating that she really didn't want to know.

"We'll spend all afternoon tomorrow wishing we'd never been born."

Suddenly, Hermione was scribbling furiously. "I'm turning in seven scrolls," she said hurriedly. "No, eight."

Harry smiled in spite of himself, then also returned to the grisly work at hand.

Meli heard a low murmuring of voices outside her private room, then a moment later, the door opened and Zarekael entered, looking highly amused.

She held up a hand, smiling. "Don't tell me," she ordered. "You heard a new joke you want to share, and you had to come all the way to the hospital wing to find someone who hadn't heard the one about the werewolf, the vampire, and the boggart—and yet, though I'm sorry to disappoint you, I'm the one who first taught it to Severus."

"Er, no," Zarekael replied, and though he seemed appropriately amused by the comment, he was still uncertain how to proceed.

_Something odd just happened,_ Meli surmised. _Well, if I can formulate and guess at the most ridiculous thing possible, maybe he'll be able to articulate what really happened._ "Let me guess," she said aloud. "You posed as a suitor to slip past Poppy in order to see me."

"Exactly," he replied, deadpan.

She arched an eyebrow. "Um, was that paying me sarcasm for sarcasm, or are you serious?"

His amusement returned. "Oh, I'm quite serious," he assured her. "It wasn't intended, but when Poppy opened the door . . ."

"Like any good Slytherin, you took advantage," she finished, grinning at Zarekael's nod. "As a quasi-Slytherin, I might have done the same," she admitted, "though not with as stunning of a success, I'm sure."

"You appear to be feeling much better than you did last night," Zarekael observed.

"Yes." She cleared her throat. "My language is much more refined than it was last night." She smiled wryly. "Oh, and by the way, I'm sure Severus is quite thankful for your costume idea."

He nodded his acknowledgment of the point, then looked at her far more narrowly. "How are you, really?"

_Saw right through that one, didn't you._ "I'm . . . still a little sore," she admitted, chagrined.

"A little . . . sore," Zarekael repeated dryly. "My, Professor Ebony, you have quite the gift for understatement."

"My, Zarekael Sel Dar Jerrikhan," Meli countered with a smirk, "you have quite the gift for keen observation."

He, too, smirked. "Bluffing one's way out of the hospital wing is not new to me," he told her. "I do believe you're a good enough actress to make it past Poppy; my congratulations."

"I see I've found a kindred spirit," Meli remarked.

"Yes." He paused, then shifted the topic. "I feel I must congratulate you for something else, as well: You're only the second person to use my name properly. Thank you."

She blinked in surprise. "You're welcome," she replied, a bit startled. "I wasn't aware it was so difficult." She realized belatedly that he was still standing, so she gestured to the room's only chair. "Sorry. Please, have a seat."

Zarekael sat, then returned immediately to the subject at hand. "Sometimes the difficulty is that people don't realize that Sel Dar Jerrikhan is a title. Other times, they mispronounce it."

"I can see how mispronunciation would be irritating," Meli said.

"It's more than just irritation," Zarekael explained. "In mispronouncing a name, you change its meaning, which is highly insulting."

She raised her eyebrows. "And in changing the meaning, you misrepresent the person bearing the name?"

"You more than misrepresent the person," he countered. "The name _is_ the person. In destroying the name, you destroy the person and deny both name and person their being."

Meli felt her eyes widen. _Note to self: Never mispronounce Zarekael's name._ "I knew from our previous conversation about names that they're important, but I didn't realize they were _that_ important."

"That's why my people so carefully guard our names," Zarekael told her. "And why we are so adamant about their proper use."

"I can see why you would have need for a progression through the names," she said. "I can only imagine what a mistake with the third name would do."

"That would be grounds for a blood-feud," he replied, matter-of-factly.

_Oh, _really,_ then! Further note to self: **Never** mispronounce Zarekael's name._

"Which is why we're very careful about whom we give our names to," he continued.

She nodded, showing interest, but she was unsure of how best to reply to that statement.

Zarekael paused, looking hesitant, then, coming to an apparent decision, spoke with a dignity and formality she had not before heard from him. "Meli Ailsa Ebony," he began.

Meli started, surprised. This was a disturbing beginning.

"I consider you a friend," he went on, either not seeing or not acknowledging her reaction, "and I would like to give you my second name. Will you accept it?"

_Oh, thank God! I thought he was proposing._ She restrained a sigh of relief. Instead, she forced her voice to harden a bit and looked him directly in the eye. "Look, Zarekael," she said quietly. "There' s something you should know about me first. People who come too close to me get killed by Death Eaters—horribly killed."

He nodded solemnly. "It wouldn't be the first time my life has been so endangered," he told her. "And I, too, know what it's like to have those close to you so terribly terminated."

She looked measuringly at him for a moment, gauging his understanding and resolve, then she slowly nodded. "Since you know what you're getting into, I accept."

Now he drew himself up slightly and spoke deliberately. "My name is Zarekael Ruthvencairn Sel Dar Jerrikhan," he said.

There seemed some need for a formal reply, so Meli cleared her throat and did the best she could on short notice and with little cultural context: "I'm honored to be entrusted with your second name." She offered a small smile. "But how, exactly, would I properly use it?"

"It has many uses," Zarekael replied. "But generally it is used only between you and me, or when others are present who know it."

"So . . . would I call you Zarekael Ruthvencairn, or just Ruthvencairn?"

"Just Ruthvencairn."

Meli paused, then recalling their earlier conversation, asked, "Do you mind if I ask what Ruthvencairn means?"

He quirked a sardonic eyebrow, mildly amused. "I wouldn't have given the name to you if I minded giving you the meaning," he pointed out. "It doesn't translate precisely because there is no frame of reference for the creature in question, but the closest English equivalent is 'sly fox'."

"An apt name for a Slytherin," Meli observed, with a half-smile. "Are names chosen for their meanings?"

"Yes," he replied. "By age five, a person will possess all four names. The first name isn't always as fitting as the later ones prove to be."

"Ah."

Before either of them could say anything further, Poppy popped her head in through the doorway. "I just dropped by to see how you're doing," she assured them.

"We're fine, Poppy," Meli told her calmly. _Leave, leave, leave, leave!_

Poppy left, but not before she gave each one a meaningful look and burst into giggles.

Meli exchanged pained looks with Zarekael. "No offense at all intended," she told him, "but . . . _no_."

"None taken, I assure you," he said, then paused, looking highly embarrassed. "I'm not sure how best to extract myself from this predicament."

Meli shook her head. "Don't try," she advised. "The harder you try, the worse it will become. Just ask Trelawney—if you dare—what happened when she tried to dispel the rumors about her and Professor Binns."

The contemplation, however brief, of that pairing, drew a troubled look to Zarekael's face. He set the disturbing thought aside, though, and smirked. "In any case, I suppose they'll figure it out sooner or later," he said.

"Hopefully sooner than later," Meli replied. "I'd rather not have to deal with a lot of awkward rumors."

Meli was still in pain on November 2, but since she had recovered enough to fake her way past Poppy, she returned to teaching. She usually leaned against her desk to lecture, so she thought she could manage pretty well, provided her Slytherin classes didn't push her too far.

Unfortunately, she had not counted on the effects of Snape having subbed for her. Her first class was fourth year Ravenclaws, and they had not done either the assigned reading or the assigned essay. When she calmly asked for their reasoning, she was rewarded with a most unacceptable answer.

"You see, Professor," one of the students said, "anytime Snape subs for Dark Arts, he goes overboard on the homework and the regular teacher always cancels the assignment. It was a waste of time to do it when there was a major Arithmancy project to work on."

Meli managed to hold onto her composure, but she discerned plainly the writing on the wall. If even the Ravenclaws had slacked, she could count on identical responses from all of her classes. She laid out in advance a well-thought-out plan of punishment for everyone—one which seemed unduly harsh now, but which she was confident would seem unduly kind by day's end—then began administering the medicine, starting with the Ravenclaws. As standing and pacing increased her pain, her patience wore thinner and thinner with each succeeding class until she at last reached a breaking point.

Said breaking point came in her second-to-last class of the day, which happened to be the fifth year Gryffindors. She knew already that she looked a bit dangerous, but the expression on Harry's face when he caught sight of her confirmed it. He had seen her lose it before when she taught in Surrey; he knew what was probably coming.

"First things first!" she snapped. "I want your essays on my desk _now_!"

Only two students stepped forward—Harry and Hermione. Meli watched them come up and deposit their scrolls, watched them retake their seats, all in perfect, deadly silence.

"And _who_ would like to inform me of the reason why the rest of you did _not_ do the homework!" she demanded, her tone brittle. The Gryffindors looked as if they were suddenly looking forward to Potions the following hour.

Surprisingly, it was Neville who raised his hand. "P-please, P-professor," he stammered. "He t-took us to a d-different unit and g-gave us a b-big assignment."

Ordinarily, Meli would have tempered her response with some compassion, but she had no temper left to spare, not even for Neville Longbottom. "I fail to see the point, Longbottom," she replied coldly, sounding to her own ears very much like Snape.

"Usually when that happens," Hermione broke in quietly, "the regular teacher tells us we don't have to do it."

"And yet you did it, Miss Granger," Meli pointed out mercilessly.

"Just in case," Hermione muttered, then fell silent.

"I see." Meli's breath came suddenly very short, similar to a wracking sob, but this was of anger, not of grief. "Well, since it would seem that, without consulting me, this class has arbitrarily decided to pull us a day behind, I, as the teacher, have arbitrarily counter-decided to bring us two days ahead!" Her voice had risen to a shout that tore at her throat and bounced around the room in taunting echoes. "By the next time we meet, you will all have done the assignment you _didn't_ do for today, with one difference. Three to five scrolls are sufficient for those who bothered to do them on time; the rest of you will write out a minimum of ten. When you've finished that, you will also complete the full reading for the unit on deadly curses, _and_ you will write for me a further fifteen scrolls on that most fascinating subject. You will turn into me the whole lot at the beginning of our next class period, and in future you had better ask me if you are _ever_ unsure of an assignment! I don't think I need point out to you that there was, prominently displayed on the door, a notice telling you as much yesterday!" She paused to get control of her breathing and forced herself to lower her voice. _Poppy's going to kill me for damaging my voice this way._ "I would also advise you," she said quietly and dangerously, "to take _Professor_ Snape at face value whenever he teaches in my stead. He may not like you much, but his greatest concern is that you know what can save you. Perhaps you think him petty . . . but in automatically discounting whatever he says in this class, _you_ are no less petty than you think him to be."

She looked around at them now. Facial expressions ranged from anger to shame to sheepishness. At least there was none of the outright hatred she'd been receiving from Slytherins all day.

"Now," she said after a moment of this observation. "I am not entirely without grace. You have the remainder of the period to start on your homework." Her voice hardened again. "But if you are doing _anything_ other than reading that unit or writing those essays, be aware that my patience is gone and I _will_ catch you." She smiled nastily. "I'll leave to your imaginations what the result will be."

Meli sat stonily at her desk for the duration of the period, anger simmering. It had not been compassion at all that had led her to allow time for studying; she had done it with all of her classes to allow time for her to sit, sparing her body the further stress of standing for hours on end.

Following this period, she had a free period—her first of the day that Snape also had free. When the bell rang, she stood, leaving the room while the cowed Gryffindors were still packing their bags.

The fifth year Gryffindors and Slytherins had Defense Against the Dark Arts on either side of Potions. Meli took a far more circuitous route to the dungeons that the Gryffindors did, intentionally allowing most of them to take their seats before she entered the classroom.

Zarekael caught sight of her before any of the students did, and he gave her a look of veiled amused curiosity that lost all trace of humor as soon as he saw her blazing eyes. The students, Gryffindors and Slytherins alike, followed his gaze to find her standing, seething, just inside the room. Sheer terror ripped across several Gryffindor faces, while the Slytherins seemed more confused and vaguely worried. Without a word, Meli stepped deliberately forward, nodded curtly to Zarekael, crossed the front of the room, and entered Snape's office.

Snape stood at her entrance, then did a double-take. "Is there a problem, Meli?" he asked quietly.

"You could say that," she replied through her teeth. "May I speak with you out in the corridor, Severus?"

They could have spoken just as effectively in his office, but rather than pointing that out, Snape quirked his mouth and nodded. Zarekael watched, once more slightly amused, as they crossed the front of the room and walked out to the corridor. He had, Meli noticed in passing, already put up on the board the ingredients and proportions of the day's potion.

"All right, Meli," Snape said, turning to face her. "What is it that requires you to make a public show of angrily speaking to me?"

She smiled, knowing it wasn't a nice smile as she did. "Do you know, Severus, that you're held in so little regard that _no_ _one_ felt the need to do the homework you assigned yesterday? And, moreover, that I'm held in so little regard that no one bothered to ask me about it?"

Snape was most definitely no longer amused. "What."

"Only one or two students in each class—regardless of their House—did the assigned work. The rest assumed it was superfluous." She shrugged. "So I thought I'd let you know that the error will be repeated only by those who very much enjoy pain, and that I'm going to be excessively harsh to your fifth year Slytherins with a great deal of malice aforethought."

"Just the fifth years?" he countered mildly.

"Oh, I haven't been _kind_ to any of them," she assured him. "But it so happens that I've just had an extreme tantrum with the fifth year Gryffindors, and fair's fair." She smirked. "We don't want Slytherin feeling slighted, now do we?"

Snape's eyes glittered wickedly. "Most certainly not," he affirmed. "Rest assured, Meli, that you can count on my support"—his eyes darted to look into the classroom—"and Zarekael's in your disciplinary efforts."

Meli bowed from the neck. "Thank you, Severus."

"The pleasure is all mine, I assure you." He re-entered the classroom and moved immediately to Zarekael's side. The apprentice must have heard the entire conversation; those pointed ears of his, as Meli had discovered, were sharper even than Crimson Fell's. Snape spoke no more than ten words to Zarekael, who nodded shrewdly, spoke a brief reply, and waved a hand at the board. Several of the ingredients and all of their measurements changed. Snape examined Zarekael's handiwork, nodded in satisfaction, and retreated to his office.

Meli, meanwhile, surveyed the board, torn between horror and admiration. She was hardly the potions genius Snape was, but she knew what certain things did when mixed with certain others, and Zarekael had created a _nasty_ recipe. His eerie blue eyes found hers; she smiled evilly, nodded her gratitude, and left the dungeons once more.

In retrospect, Meli reflected that she should have smelled a rat immediately when Lavendar Brown and Parvati Patil (sarcastically known among many of the teachers as "Trelawney's adepts") approached her after class the following day. Her mind still fresh from the lecture, however, she made the understandable mistake of thinking that their question would center on academics.

It was, therefore, a nasty shock when Parvati opened the conversation by saying, "Are you _lonely_, Professor Ebony?"

Meli forced herself to swallow the sip of water she had just taken, though the temptation to sputter and spew it all over the students in front of her was almost more than she could stand. "Am I what?" she forced herself to reply. She was pleased to note that her tone was more or less even, betraying no trace of the laughter and horror that battled for dominance.

"You seem so solitary and so . . . upset," Lavendar said, almost mournfully. "Haven't you ever wanted to _share_ your life with someone?"

It was utterly surreal; Meli felt half as though she had tumbled through the looking-glass. She shook off the thought; a conversation with Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum would make far more sense than this did.

She cleared her throat. "Do you have someone in mind?" she asked, horror taking an upper hand.

Parvati and Lavendar traded delighted looks. "What would you say," the former whispered excitedly, "if Zarekael were to ask you out?"

Meli permitted herself a highly regulated smile as horror unexpectedly went into its death throes. "I'd ask him when he'd last had a CAT scan," she replied. "Have you talked with him about this yet?"

"We just wanted to be certain first that you'd say yes," Lavendar said with a grin.

"We were already _pretty_ sure," Parvati added. "Both of us, _and_ Professor Trelawney, agreed on what we saw in the crystal ball."

_What an unfortunate coincidence._ "Ah." Meli could barely restrain her laughter. "Well, rest assured, ladies, that if Zarekael ever asked me, I would say yes." _Granted, Earth will fall into the sun before that day comes,_ she added silently, _but one unlikely word deserves another._

Her students left giggling, and Meli rolled her eyes skyward. "Zarekael," she murmured, "look out."


	14. Unholy Smoke

****

Chapter 14: Unholy Smoke

****

PRESENT: MID-NOVEMBER

It never ceased to amaze Meli, the way in which one incident could touch off an avalanche of events that led to the acquisition of seemingly unrelated and most certainly unwanted information. These incidents were usually unexpected; the knowledge always was.

Thus, when Hogwarts' warning klaxons sounded in the middle of fifth year Gryffindor Defense Against the Dark Arts, her only immediate thought was to send her students to safety, and it never occurred to her to wonder if perhaps Zarekael had something to do with it. Dumbledore's voice, carried throughout the castle by the Sonorus charm a moment later, confirmed her immediate thought by instructing students to return to their Houses and calling the faculty and staff to a muster station. She oversaw the exit of her students, then ducked into her office just long enough to retrieve a bag of tricks before hastening to meet with the other defenders.

By the time she arrived, about half of the faculty were already gathered. She passed the time usefully, buttoning up her duster, donning her hood, and, since she'd had no time to get her Skulker mask, covering her face and hands with black grease paint she'd stowed in her bag for the purpose. Hagrid, Vector, and Sinistra watched these preparations in amusement, but they knew better than to make a crack.

The final four teachers—the Heads of Houses, who had had to see to their students' safety first—arrived just as Meli finished. All eyes turned to Dumbledore, who grimly briefed them.

The early-alert wards had picked up two groups of Death Eaters, one coming from the forest, the other from the lake; based upon their numbers and tactics, it was reasonable to conclude that their mission was to kidnap Harry Potter. They were not yet near enough to trip the Ministry-alert wards, but the teachers would need to delay the advancing groups until the Aurors could get there to help, or the castle itself might be in danger.

Meli snorted, drawing a warning look from Dumbledore. She had never yet met a helpful British Auror, and if her experience was any reliable standard, these would come just in time to get in the way—and then they would give guff to the defenders for inconveniencing them.

Nevertheless, she allowed herself to be quelled by Dumbledore's glance and fell silent. This was neither the time nor the place to air her opinions of Magical Law Enforcement.

Dumbledore finished his talk and started deploying groups of teachers to deter the invaders. Sprout and her group were dispatched to the edge of the forest, where the Herbology teacher had apparently planted a large quantity of weapons-grade tangleweed, among other things.

Next came Meli's group: Vector, Flitwick, Hagrid, and herself. Their specialty was improvising ambushes, their targets were the Death Eaters near the lake, and their orders were to divert, distract, and distress, but not to engage directly.

Meli grinned wickedly as they turned to go. The order not to engage was only a light limitation, really; without knowing it (probably), Dumbledore had given the four of them carte blanche to wreak havoc, and she was already enjoying every moment of it.

"I've got 'n idea," Hagrid said quietly, once they were out of earshot of the other faculty.

"Oh?" Vector replied. "Let's hear it."

Hagrid smiled conspiratorially. "If th' Death Eaters went a bit t' their left, they'd come across Fluffy—"

"You've penned that thing near the lake?!" Flitwick squeaked.

Hagrid shrugged defensively. "'e had to go somewhere!" he protested. "Once Dumbledore didn't need 'im on the third floor, it woulda been cruel to keep 'im in that little room! This way, 'e can 'ave fresh air, an' talk to th' squid, an'—"

"I like him already," Meli interposed. "What is he?"

"Jus' a wee pup," Hagrid mumbled sheepishly.

"A wee pup the size of an oliphaunt and with three heads besides!" Flitwick added. "_Very_ good for chasing off unwanted guests, I will admit."

Meli stared at him. "Did you just say 'oliphaunt'?"

Flitwick nodded. "I did," he affirmed.

"And I suppose you've seen one," she said sardonically.

In answer, Flitwick looked to Hagrid, who sniffled. "'is name was Peanut," he murmured. "Died las' winter. I miss 'im terribly."

Meli blinked a few times. "Right, then!" she said. _Shutting up now,_ she added silently. "So. Ahem. Fluffy. How do we steer the Death Eaters toward him?"

They were silent a moment before Flitwick piped up. "Rubeus," he said slyly, "do you still have any of your blast-ended skrewts?"

"Course not!" Hagrid answered, just a little too quickly. "Th' Ministry destroyed 'em all—you know that."

"The Forbidden Forest, then," Vector hazarded. "Not too near the school, of course . . . Perhaps keeping company with your arachnid friend?"

Hagrid had gone pale. "There's only one left!" he told them. "I kep' one—it can't breed, so Dumbledore made an arrangemen'—"

"Which is entirely _not_ the point," Meli interrupted. "We're not trying to get you into trouble; we're trying to protect Harry Potter."

Vector laid an encouraging hand on Hagrid's shoulder. "Do it for Harry, Rubeus," she said emphatically.

Hagrid took a deep, shuddering breath. "Fer Harry," he repeated. "Yeh. It's fer Harry. It's jus'—you won't . . . he won't get hurt, will 'e?"

Flitwick grinned evilly. "No," he replied. "Though I can't promise he won't become a touch cranky."

"Oh, well . . . that's all righ', then. Sparky's always a bit cranky anyway."

Vector clapped a hand over her face and shook her head. "He named it Sparky," she moaned.

Meli smirked. "I like _him_ already, too," she commented.

Flitwick smiled serenely and looked up at her. "Just how many dung bombs do you happen to have in that bag of yours?" he inquired casually.

She glanced sidewise down at him. "I'm that obvious, am I?"

The answer came from all three simultaneously. "_Yes_!"

"I see." She smirked, then blinked as they stepped outside. "Bloody sunlight. Last time I took inventory, I believe it was about fifty dung bombs, plus some other little goodies. How many do you need?"

"Fifty should be more than adequate," Flitwick answered in a gloating voice. "Particularly if we make use of our other resources."

Vector raised an amused eyebrow. "And those resources would be . . . ?"

Flitwick grinned outright. "Meli's bag of tricks, Rubeus' pets, my brains, and your strategical genius." His grin turned carnivorous. "And our entire team's intrepidity at . . ." He trailed off.

Meli tilted her head expectantly, and Hagrid cleared his throat a few times. Finally, Vector let out an exasperated hiss. "Our intrepidity at _what_?"

Meli was sure she saw a tarnished halo attempting to shine purely above the Charms teacher's pate. "At heckling!" he finished, with a triumphant bow that very nearly became a somersault.

Vector looked at Meli, who looked straight back at her without blinking. "They're doomed," the arithmancer pronounced matter-of-factly. "Even Albus couldn't withstand such an assault."

By now they had arrived at Hagrid's cottage, where that gentleman temporarily left the company, returning a fair time later with one of the ugliest living confabulations Meli had ever seen.

_Well,_ she thought, _he was right about one thing, anyway—the thing already looks pissed. I wonder what happens when it gets pissed _off.

Hagrid seemed entirely oblivious to his pet's irritable state; he was chattering animatedly at it about the last quidditch game while the skrewt kept a baleful eye on the crossbow swinging from the gamekeeper's shoulder.

"All righ', Sparky, here we are," Hagrid at last concluded. "I'd like ye t' meet Professors Vector, Ebony, and Flitwick."

The skrewt glared at each of them but made no other sign of acknowledgment.  
"So now that we have both of Rubeus' necessary pets," Vector said, turning to Flitwick, "I'm curious to know what precisely we'll be doing with them."

Flitwick smirked. "We're going to herd some Death Eaters, of course," was the only immediate reply he made.

He did enlighten them, but it was on the run, and his master plan required a frenzied ten minutes of hasty set-up. Hagrid was dispatched to Fluffy's pen to open and conceal the gate, while Meli placed smoke bombs and tripwires in several strategic places and the others established a perimeter with dung bombs. At Flitwick's urging, one smoke bomb and two dozen dung bombs were kept in reserve. These were then tossed into Hagrid's vest, which he reluctantly volunteered, and the whole package was thoroughly bound up with Spello-tape and then fastened solidly over the skrewt's . . . well, blast-end.

Sparky was less than thrilled with the whole arrangement, especially when Flitwick levitated him into the middle of what was soon to become a battleground.

"He's go'n' to leave a nasty mess," Hagrid observed dubiously.

"Then I suppose it's just as well that _we_ won't have to be anywhere nearby," Meli countered.

Hagrid shook his head. "As cranky as 'e is even now, I'd be s'prised if th' castle doesn' take some splash."

There was the sound of a small explosion, and Flitwick beckoned them frantically. "That was the perimeter!" he squealed. "Let's go!"

Several more dung bombs went off as the teachers bolted and went to ground, but there was no doubt of the precise moment that a Death Eater hit one of Meli's tripwires and fell directly on top of Sparky. The skrewt's delicate temper finally snapped, and the resulting gout of flame not only barbecued the Death Eater but also spectacularly set off the bomb package in an explosion that shook the ground and sent an unbelievably foul mushroom cloud into the air. Further confusion resulted when other Death Eaters set off the smoke bombs, and the entire area was full of obscenely disgusting smoke and debris. Utter pandemonium resulted, leaving the Death Eaters as unknowing sheep just waiting for thoroughly eager shepherds to direct them to a pen.

Somewhere in all of that mess the Aurors arrived, though the teachers didn't realize it until much later. First contact came when one apparated in directly on top of a dung bomb.

"Holy _crap_!" he shrieked.

Meli leapt out from her cover, laughing maniacally. "Well, you're half right!" she shouted gleefully, then pranced off.

She was not the only one to commence with the heckling, and the Death Eaters who had survived the skrewt were successfully steered nearer and nearer to the water and steadily closer to Fluffy. Meli heard Vector hollering something about a random Death Eater's mother wearing combat boots (though in all of the din it sounded like "wombat poops"), while Flitwick settled for shouting, "Here, pigs! Su-ey! Piggy-piggy-piggy!" What Hagrid was yelling was really anyone's guess, but his gruff voice was enough to make wise Death Eaters flee.

The lake shore appeared gradually through the putrid haze, and Meli, as well as the Death Eaters she was chasing, had a nasty shock: The merpeople were restless.

The Death Eaters literally skidded to a halt a few feet short of several dozen leveled tridents. By this time the Aurors had caught up to the teachers and closed ranks behind the herd, so while the Death Eaters couldn't go forward, they also couldn't go back. The only direction in which they _could_ go was through the sudden gauntlet—and straight into Fluffy's pen. Hagrid slammed the gate behind them, and the out-of-breath defenders had the joyful privilege of hearing Fluffy greet his new friends.

"They can still apparate out!" one of the Aurors snapped.

"Oh, shut your hole, Scatcherd," Vector retorted. "You're as dim as you were when we were classmates. We're not so stupid; Dumbledore has anti-apparation wards over it to keep idiots like you from dropping in accidentally. They're trapped in there."

The Auror glared at her. "I hope you understand that we'll be sorting out all of this shortly," she said acidly.

Vector looked sidewise at her, as unimpressed as if Scatcherd had just announced that bunnies had long ears. "_We_ had it all sorted out," she informed the Auror. "What disorganized it was your ungraceful appearance on the scene."

"Now look here!" Scatcherd fumed, but Vector cut her off with a smirk.

"Actually, I'd prefer to look on my handiwork, if it's all the same to you," she replied, then turned her back on Scatcherd to stroll back to ground-zero.

Utterly flummoxed, the Auror looked to Meli, who smiled and shrugged helplessly. "Ravenclaws," she said, rolling her eyes. "_Thoroughly _incomprehensible." She, too, turned to leave.

"_I'm_ a Ravenclaw!" Scatcherd shouted in her wake.

"That's all right!" she called back over her shoulder. "No need to apologize!"

There were no apologies made on either side, but Meli's prediction did come true. She and the other teachers in her group were separated and questioned by the Aurors who had apparated into a poorly chosen site at a poorly chosen time, and by the end of it she, Flitwick, and Vector were feeling more than a little surly; Hagrid felt like a criminal, which made only further worsened his colleagues' mood. By the time the Aurors finally turned the teachers loose for a quick dinner and some well-earned sleep, Flitwick was muttering viciously that, in place of the bombs, "we ought to have strapped the Aurors to Sparky's arse!"

Meli wholeheartedly agreed, but that did nothing to prevent her from falling into bed and sinking into the sleep of the dead. Only one thing could wake her, and unfortunately, wake her it did.


	15. The Tiger and His Stripes

****

Chapter 15: The Tiger and His Stripes

The first sudden flash of pain snapped Meli awake a split second before the accompanying scream assaulted her ears. Instinctively, she whipped around and shoved one corner of a pillow into her mouth. She didn't want to wake Monty; he'd probably panic and go looking for Dumbledore or—

"Severus!"

The first scream she had ever heard through Voldemort's curse had burned itself indelibly into her mind, and now she heard it again. The Dark Lord was torturing Severus Snape.

"My lord, I'm loyal!" he screamed, over and over again, and still the torture continued. Moreover, it intensified as a second Cruciatus washed over her.

Tears stung her eyes as she coiled into a ball and bit down hard on the pillow, her only focus on riding it out. She had known two different ways that Snape had returned to Voldemort as a spy, but now she had further confirmation if she had either wanted or needed it; she had not.

The pain abruptly cut off, taking Snape's screams with it. She waited a moment, then slowly, every move sending ripples of agony through her, pulled free of her pillow and rolled over, hoping futilely that the worst had passed.

It hadn't, of course. Not two minutes later, agony recaptured her, and a moment after that, there came a roiling scream like nothing she had ever heard from a human being. This victim managed no words but instead gave himself fully to the pain. Already raw from Snape's torture, Meli's nerve endings burned and screamed all the more under this attack. The pain eventually faded once more, but she dared not believe even now that it was over.

Her eyes had squeezed shut so tightly that it was a full minute before she could force them open again. When she did, she was surprised to discover that Dumbledore sat quietly beside her bed, watching from a chair he had doubtless brought in from the front room. Her throat was raw; she could not speak, even to ask him how he came to be there.

Dumbledore smiled sadly and answered her unspoken question. "Monty let me in."

She nodded slightly but could give no other reply. Her mind had already moved on to other matters.

Placed in the context of the attempted abduction earlier in the day, Voldemort's rage made perfect sense. If Snape had infiltrated the Death Eaters, he would, logically, have been charged with the task of lowering Hogwarts' defenses before the kidnapping; those defenses, she well knew, had been fully functional when Death Eaters arrived. It would be easy to conclude that Snape was, at best, unintentionally responsible for that failure and, at worst, a traitor. Torture would be only a prelude to his actual punishment.

But who else would be so punished, and why had Snape's torture ended so soon? Voldemort had lost a number of trusted and valued associates in the failed raid; he would not have stayed Snape's punishment unless, inexplicably, something more important had come up. Torturing the second person must have taken precedence . . . but why?

It was only logical to conclude that Voldemort had somehow been convinced that a second person was more to blame, but by whom and how? Certainly not by Snape—she had heard his every word, and in any case, he wasn't in a condition to do much convincing.

Who could possibly have been more to blame for the raid's failure than Snape? Who else could have been responsible for ensuring that the defenses were down—it was, after all, a foregone conclusion that Voldemort would know why the raid had failed. It would have to be someone at Hogwarts, not necessarily a spy, but possibly so . . . and someone with enough personal loyalty to Snape to take the heat for him.

"Zarekael," she choked, remembering only afterward that she was not alone—

Fresh pain ripped through her as his roiling shrieks started again. She rolled back onto her side and howled in agony, but for once her own pain was nothing to that of the direct victim. Judging by his screams, Zarekael had been physically tortured in some drastic way, and the Cruciatus on top of it was almost too much for him to bear. Echoes of something like a strap striking flesh accompanied his cries, and she wondered if it might be a whip.

The Cruciatus let up suddenly, then renewed again, then again stopped. This pattern continued tormentingly for an untold period of time. Zarekael's screams faded eventually; no voice could withstand what he'd gone through. She suspected that there were times when Zarekael passed out from the pain, but Voldemort would, naturally, enervate him. It had to end soon, though, if he was to remain alive and useful to the Dark Lord . . .

By the time the torture finally ended, Meli's mouth was spotted with blood from her throat. She made no out-of-the-way effort to reopen her eyes this time, allowing them to relax at their leisure.

Zarekael's maneuver in taking the blame had probably saved Snape's life . . . but if he truly _was_ loyal to Voldemort, the time would come when he would have to kill Snape because of Meli's friendship with him. She hoped grimly that Zarekael would live long enough for her to demand answers from him.

By the time her eyes opened of their own volition, Dumbledore and his chair were gone, and Monty was beside her, holding out a bottle she kept always ready on her potions worktable.

"Drink this," he ordered.

Meli managed a weak smile, then mouthed the words, "Help me up."

He did so, supporting her head and neck until she could swallow a generous sip, then he lowered her back to the bed. "Dumbledore had to go," he explained. "Something important must have happened."

It was a clear invitation for details, but Meli had no intention of parting with them. Her destroyed voice was suddenly a very convenient excuse.

The potion began its work as quickly as she could have hoped for, and while it did not stop the pain completely, it eased it somewhat. She would still be twitching uncontrollably come morning, and any major movement would be minor torture in itself, but if she rested now, her voice should be recovered enough to speak for a short time in a few hours.

She sighed and closed her eyes, eventually drifting into the realm of light sleep.

Monty regarded Meli silently for a moment, then shrank away from the bed and slithered away. Something had been said while he was gone getting Meli's pain potion, something of great importance that he, as her protector, should know, but neither she nor Dumbledore was willing to pass it on to him. It vexed him greatly, but he was severely limited in what he could do about it.

There were distinct disadvantages to being a python.

It was with gritted teeth and an endless stream of self-deprecating self-talk that Meli forced herself out of bed and out of her rooms. Every major movement sent searing lances of pain through her, but she compelled her body to obey the necessary commands that carried her past Monty's cage, through the door, and down the dimly lit corridors to Snape's door. It was a full minute before she could control her twitching hand sufficiently to knock, but knock she finally did.

Snape answered the door almost immediately; she knew he had probably been waiting for her knock. He surveyed her pitiful form silently, and she knew that he took in every detail, from the arms that still trembled to the fact that she was still in her pajamas—and that those pajamas were rumpled as if she had been in a life-and-death wrestling match only moments before.

"Good morning, Meli," he said sardonically. He would, of course, be acting as normally as possible, but to her searching eye, he looked haggard and worn.

She smiled weakly. "Well, it's morning, anyway," she rasped. "Severus, I hate to ask it of you again, but could you cover my classes today? I had a . . . rough night."

He arched an eyebrow. _Congratulations on another of your classic understatements, Miss Ebony,_ his eyes said, but aloud he reminded her, "I agreed to teach in your stead any time you're unable to."

"I know." She shook her head. "I just honestly didn't think it would happen so often."

Snape bowed slightly. "I truth, I'm getting the better end of the deal," he remarked. He lost his subtly light air and reverted from colleague to friend. "Go rest, Meli. When _you_ say you've had a rough night, it's a dramatic understatement."

"I'm sure I'm not the only one of whom that's true," she murmured as she turned away, trying to keep her movements as natural as possible.

"Meli."

She stopped and looked back, fire screaming through her neck and back as she did.

Snape's gaze was very intent. "Do you . . . remember . . . every voice you hear?" he asked.

She raised her eyebrows in surprise that he would actually ask what he must certainly have wondered. "If I've heard the voice before, I'll recognize it when I hear it again," she replied in a low voice.

Neither one dared to display the pity each felt for the other, but a silent understanding passed between them. Meli shuffled painfully back down the corridor, keeping from Snape any visual confirmation of what she knew he knew anyway, and Snape went about his usual morning business, keeping from Meli any clue of what he knew she was fully aware of.

****

31 OCTOBER 1981, THIRD YEAR

The Halloween feast went a little later than usual, and it was followed by an impromptu party in the Gryffindor common room. By the time she finally reached her bed, Meli's only thought was of sleep.

She had scarcely pulled the curtains shut, though, when a terrible premonition fell on her. She whipped out her wand and whispered a silencing charm—one of the few useful things learned from her grandfather—that cut off her little island of a bed from the rest of the dormitory. No sooner had she stowed her wand than the familiar agony gripped her and a death scream washed over her. It was a man; more than that she could not tell.

There was silence in the wake of that death, broken only by the moans that escaped through Meli's teeth. It had been a quick death—probably _Avada Kedavra_—so the torture passed onto her had been brief, but she dreaded that it was not over. And that meant that, in addition to herself, others were suffering, as well. One man had died already; others might well follow.

She was tragically right. A few minutes later, there was another death scream, this one a woman's. Meli howled in pain, tears flowing in outrage at the senselessness and injustice of these deaths. This was also a quick death . . . though there was an odd lingering touch of the woman's voice, as if she had not completely faded into death as others did. Something of her remained . . .

There was almost no pause between the woman's death and what happened next. The torment of a third deadly curse coursed through Meli's body, but instead of a scream, the first sound she heard was a puff of breath, followed by a baby's cry . . . and then the woman's voice again.

_What in the world . . . ?_

There was a pause now in sound and pain—

And then _Voldemort_ was screaming, screaming as if he should be dying, but it was too drawn out to be a proper death cry. Meli writhed and thrashed at _his_ torment now, screamed in concert with _him_, and even as the pain mounted beyond any torture she had ever before experienced, she retained enough reason to wonder how on earth this could have happened.

Voldemort's voice faded away, but something of it, too, remained. Meli's torture ended, and she lay flat, her muscles twitching uncontrollably. She was too exhausted to move and in far too much pain to sleep, but eventually, as she concentrated on breathing, just breathing, she, too, faded from the world for a few precious hours.

She awoke to fresh spasms of pain as someone shook her out of sleep.

"Meli, Meli, you've got to get up! Meli, wake up!"

Meli stared blearily at Estella Pippin. "What time is it?" she asked.

"Six-thirty. It's early, I know, but Collum's in the stairwell shouting for you, and he won't go away until he's talked with you." Estella's countenance and manner were agitated. "Come on, Meli, get up."

"Six-thirty on a Sunday morning?" Meli rasped. "Can't it wait?"

"No, it can't," Estella said firmly.

Meli stared at her. "Collum's not the only one up making a row," she realized. "Is he."

Estella shook her head. "The whole school's in an uproar," she replied. "I don't know how you slept through it."

Meli began to suspect what it was that she'd heard. She had thought she would have to notify Dumbledore and tell him what had happened, but it looked now as if he—and everyone else—already knew, and knew more than she did.

She rolled carefully out of bed, clenching her teeth to keep herself from giving any sign of the pain it cost her. She walked slowly, but she managed not to limp or shuffle.

Collum was waiting for her in the stairwell, an early edition of the _Daily Prophet_ in hand. "Have you heard, Meli?" he all but shouted. "Have you heard about _You-Know-Who_?"

Meli crossed her arms. "It's six-thirty in the morning, Collum," she said coldly.

"But You-Know-Who is _gone_!"

"How?" She theorized by now, of course, that somehow Voldemort's last curse had rebounded, but details of how it had happened eluded her.

The story tumbled out of Collum, events emerging in no particular order, as it seemed, but Meli caught enough of it to match details with what she did know. The man who died first was James Potter, former Hogwarts Head Boy and Seeker for Gryffindor's quidditch team. The woman killed was his wife Lily, another Gryffindor and a former Head Girl. The third curse had been intended for their infant son Harry, but for some reason, as Meli had already figured out, it had deflected off of Harry Potter and struck Voldemort instead.

She was irritated, perhaps irrationally, that everyone was already celebrating. To all appearances, after all, Voldemort _was_ dead, defeated, gone. She, however, had good reason to believe otherwise, and Collum's clear expectation that she be ecstatic only further nettled her. She waited until he had finally wound down, then nodded once. "Thank you for telling me. Wake me when they've found Voldemort's corpse." With that, she turned and walked back into her room.

Crim found Collum at breakfast, where he grumbled a great deal about Meli's unaccountable attitude problem. As he should have expected, his sister was not at all sympathetic.

"Well, stupid, think about it: If You-Know-Who let off three zaps last night, it stands to reason that she got hit by all of them, doesn't it." She glanced around quickly. "Now tell me your password."

He stared at her. "What?"

"Well, _someone's_ got to go talk to her," Crim told him. "You've mucked up your chance, so now it's my turn, but I need to get _in_to Gryffindor to talk to someone there, now don't I?"

Collum gave her a sullen look, but answered, "It's 'lightening bolt'."

"Imaginative," she commented with a smirk. "I'll talk with you after." She ducked away and slipped out of the Great Hall unseen.

Crim never divulged to anyone how she located Meli as quickly as she did, but she found her friend asleep in bed. Instead of waking her, she sat down on the edge of the bed, inside the curtains, to wait. It was doubtful that, with people rejoicing down in the Great Hall, anyone would come up to Gryffindor Tower, but it wouldn't do for a lone Slytherin to be caught there. With the mood people were in right now, the Gryffindors might think she was maliciously pranking them as revenge for Voldemort's demise.

It just didn't pay to be a clever sneak sometimes; most Gryffindors were predisposed to dislike such people.

After a few minutes, Meli rolled over, moaned in pain, and woke up.

"Good morning, Sunshine," Crim said brightly.

Meli managed a rueful smile. "What time is it?"

"Just ten. Not yet a decent hour to be up after the night you've probably had."

The Gryffindor nodded groggily, then suddenly sat straight up. "Crimson Fell, _what_ do you think you're doing here!"

"Well, I sneaked in, didn't I." She grinned. "Collum's all in a dudgeon about you not being thrilled at the news. You didn't take him by the arm and tango down the corridor with him, so he thinks you're mad at him."

"I could barely move when he shouted me out of bed," Meli grumbled. "What did he _expect_? I was seizing until past two in the morning."

"Well, you see, my dear Meli, the problem with true-blue Gryffindors is that they're blockheads," Crim said. "Present company excepted, of course. The only thing that kept Collum out of Hufflepuff, in my opinion, is the fact that he's the _quintessential_ blockhead."

Meli laughed in spite of herself, but stopped as the motion awoke new pain. "I think he was just excited," she said. "I don't know; maybe I'd've been carried away, too."

"He'd have been hexed several times over had he been in Slytherin," Crim commented darkly. "My Housemates are rather less enthusiastic, as you may imagine."

"Er, yes."

Crim looked her directly in the eye. "You don't have to answer this," she began slowly, "but what happened last night?"

Meli bit her lip. "The _Daily Prophet_ got it about right," she replied. "I felt all three curses, but something went wrong with the third one. Voldemort screamed and screamed—I thought it would never end. It was too long for a death scream, though—it went on for too long."

"So maybe he was tortured to death, then," Crim suggested, but without much hope.

"Maybe," Meli agreed, her tone identical. "I've got to tell Dumbledore, though. He'll want to know what I heard."

Crim nodded. "Pomfrey will want to see you, too."

"Well, the poor dear can just go on wanting it, then," Meli muttered. "Unless Dumbledore specifically sends me to the hospital wing, I'm going to avoid it like the plague. She _always_ overreacts."

"And _you_ always fake your way out far earlier than is properly healthy," Crim countered sardonically. "But it's your life, I suppose, so I'll let you live it."

"Thank you."

Dumbledore, as expected, was very interested in what Meli had to report. She had avoided giving out details to Crim, but from Dumbledore she kept nothing back. He seemed particularly interested to hear that Lily Potter's voice had been heard _after_ her death and before the third curse had gone awry. Meli knew better than to ask about it, but she filed the fact away for future reflection.

She finished her report, then paused a moment. Dumbledore seemed almost expectant, so she ventured to ask, "He's not really dead, is he?" She swallowed. "He—he can come back again."

Dumbledore smiled gently. "It will not be for some time," he assured her. "But yes, there are ways in which he can come back, and I have little doubt that he will."

"He's nearly as persistent as you are, sir," Meli said. "If he finds a way, he'll use it. And he's looking for ways even now, I'm sure." She knew that Dumbledore would never lie; she had hoped, with that knowledge but without much conviction, that he would say that Voldemort was truly gone for good. But hearing from him the truth, however terrible, breathed life into her as a comforting lie could not. "I'm afraid that the last shred of Tom Riddle is dead, though," she added carefully. "When Voldemort returns, he won't be as charming as he was. He won't be human anymore."

Dumbledore looked thoughtfully at her. "That is a possibility," he allowed.

_And when he comes back, I'm going to fight him_, she vowed silently as she descended the stairs from the headmaster's office. _Even if I can't be the one to kill him, I'll do everything I can to see that he ends up dead—for good._

Coming out of the hidden stairway to Dumbledore's office, she ran into one of the last people she expected to find out and about on such a day.

"Hello, Professor Snape," she said quietly, stepping aside to let him past.

"Good morning, Miss Stafford," he replied, then paused and added, "I hope you're well this morning?"

She nodded to cover her shock. He had always treated her coldly before, the sole exception being a time at which his temper had flared and lashed out at her. She, having seen his face alongside her grandfather's and those of several other Death Eaters, had never questioned his reasons for treating her so; for him to be at all courteous, on today of all days, was the greatest of surprises. "I'm well, sir," she replied. "And . . . how are you?"

"I am . . . in a hurry to see the headmaster," he answered, then stepped past her and up the stairway.

Meli watched him go, wheels already turning in her head. _I believe, Professor Snape, that you and I need to have a little talk._

She had to wait a day and a half for the chance to have that little talk, but that chance, when it came, was all owing to Collum Fell and his thoughtless temper.

It was a very frustrating day in Potions, especially for the Gryffindors. The Slytherins were in thoroughly foul moods, and Gryffindors made perfect targets for the venting of hostility. Tension mounted all period, until Meli wondered who it was that would crack first.

Collum cracked first, as it happened, and he was rather messy about it. Anthony Flint had hexed his cauldron so that it spat out anything Collum put into it, and Collum had, consequently, spent over half the period trying to figure out the countercurse. Flint, bored with Collum's lack of progress, levitated a pewter paperweight into the cauldron.

Predictably, the cauldron spat it back out, in a direct line drive for Collum's head. He ducked out of the way just in time, but the sudden motion unbalanced his stool, dumping him to the floor. Flint, as well as a number of other Slytherins, found this highly amusing; Collum, most unfortunately, did not.

"Bloody _hell_!" he hollered, climbing up again and lunging at Flint. "You slimy git!"

Meli restrained him, but he wouldn't meet her eye, so there was no way to warn him silently.

"Fell!" Snape snapped, crossing the room in three strides. "Return to your place immediately. I'm deducting five points for your language; don't make things worse for yourself or your House."

_Only five points, and a plea not to make him take more?!_ Meli thought in near-shock. _That was positively _considerate_ of him!_

Collum thought otherwise, however. "And what about docking Slytherin for _Flint's_ little stunt?" he retorted. "Or are you just going to let that pass because he's in your House?"

"Collum!" Meli hissed.

Snape subdued Collum with the most blood-chilling glare Meli had ever seen from anyone in her life. "Gryffindors will please note a further ten-point deduction," he said through his teeth, "for Mr. Fell's cheek."

Meli shoved Collum back into his seat, then quickly raised her hand. There would never be a better time. It was the perfect opportunity for a smart-aleck to make a crack to break the tension, and that would more than cover for her actual purpose.

From the corner of her eyes, she saw that Snape's glare and her subsequent shove had set Collum to contemplating his cauldron with a profound interest that had nothing to do with finding a countercurse.

The Potions master's eyes now turned on Meli. "Yes, Miss Stafford?"

She took a deep breath, then said quietly, but steadily, "I'm sorry, sir, but you only took ten points from Gryffindor. For cheek of that magnitude, you usually take fifty."

Collum jabbed his elbow hard at her ribs, but she ignored him, instead looking innocently at Snape. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sharpie and Crim trying very hard not to laugh.

Snape's eyes took on a deadly blaze, and a long silence ensued. When he finally did speak, his tone was brittle. "_What_ did you just say, Miss Stafford?" he demanded.

She kept her features impassive, informative. "It's just that you only deducted ten, sir. I was afraid that the residents of Slytherin House present might feel slighted by the lightness of such a punishment, and, indeed, sir—"

"Have you forgotten, Miss Stafford, that you are yourself a Gryffindor?" Snape asked, the first touch of incredulity beginning to seep into his voice.

She affected surprise. "Why, no, Professor. I'm well aware of my House."

"Are you likewise aware of the particularly stiff rivalry between your House and Slytherin?"

"With all due respect, sir, I hardly see how I couldn't be."

By now Snape's expression lay somewhere in the no-man's land between subtle amusement and outright astonishment. "Do you mind if I ask, then, why it is that you draw my attention to such an error instead of taking your forty points and running with them?"

She saw Crim grin openly in anticipation of her next words, and she did not disappoint. "No, sir," she replied. "I don't mind if you ask."

The Gryffindors were torn between horror and humor; the Slytherins, with the notable exceptions of Crim and Sharpie, were utterly thunderstruck.

Snape, for his part, was at a loss for words for possibly the first time in his career at Hogwarts. When at last he found his voice, he cleared his throat, nodded curtly, then said, "Very well, Miss Stafford. We'll continue this discussion after class."

Now it was Sharpie's raised hand that drew the Potions master's gaze. Snape sighed, just audibly. "_Yes_, Pierce?"

"Speaking for Slytherin House, sir . . . exactly how many points _has_ Gryffindor lost?"

Snape clenched and unclenched his teeth several times before answering. "So far, fifteen, Mr. Pierce." His eyes flicked darkly to the still-unconcerned Meli. "Though that may well change after I've had a little chat with Miss Stafford."

The bell rang, and everyone gathered up their implements except for Meli, who sat serenely at the table she shared with Collum and two other Gryffindors. Collum pretended to have dropped something near her and leaned in close enough to whisper, "We'll be skulking nearby to clean up your remains after," before he stood and left the room. Meli smiled cheerily and began slowly stowing her own implements in her satchel. Only after the last student had left did she look up again to find Snape glowering his way from the front of the room to her worktable.

"May I ask what, exactly, you hoped to accomplish with that display of impertinence?" he asked, his clipped tones even brisker than usual.

She met his eyes easily, without the slightest trace of intimidation. "I hoped to accomplish two things, Professor, at least one of which I _have_ accomplished."

"And those are?"

"First, sir," she said calmly, "I was hoping for the opportunity to speak with you. Since I know you don't completely trust me, I seriously doubted you would want to have a talk with me unless it involved disciplinary action. So, admittedly, I rather hoped for this precise outcome.

"And secondly"—she grinned—"I truly thought you had made an honest mistake, and I was hoping to save you the trouble resultant from discovering that error later on."

Snape stared at her. "You _wanted_ to be detained for disciplinary action," he breathed. "_Why?_"

The question brought to mind an idea, but it had nothing to do with the action of the moment, so Meli filed it away for later prank-plotting. In answer to Snape's query, she lowered her unflappable façade by the smallest bit. "I know you know who I am, sir," she told him, the barest quaver slipping into her voice. "I don't blame you for not trusting me." She smiled faintly. "Just as I daresay you mightn't blame _me_ for not trusting _you_ at first."

She paused, but Snape, once more at a loss for words, made no answer.

"You know of the bane I carry, sir—I know you must because of what you . . . were." Her walls were crumbling now, without her permission, but somehow she forced her emotions to stay somewhat at bay. "I carry that bane still; I have never once even _thought_ of surrendering to have it removed. But you also know about the curse—I know that, too." She bit her lip. "I see that knowledge in your eye every time you look at me.

"I won't be free of that second burden until _he_ is dead, though I am much indebted to Harry Potter for giving me some reprieve." She forced herself to meet Snape's astonished eyes. "When his own curse hit him, I felt it, sir. I knew that scream for what it was."

She swallowed, hard. "I—I want to assure you that Voldemort has no hold on me, not even for my grandfather's sake. My grandfather raised me; until two and a half years ago, he was the only protector I ever knew. I loved him, yes . . . but he gave himself fully to Voldemort and the pursuit of power. I knew him for my enemy even as a young child—you need have no fear on that account."

Her expression had once more hardened during this last speech, and though she no longer appeared exactly calm, she was most certainly resolved. "I will fight Voldemort to my last dying breath, Professor Snape, as I know from what I observe, you will also do. Headmaster Dumbledore was right to give you a second chance; I only hope you'll trust likewise that he was right in giving _me_ a second chance."

Snape's countenance was remarkable to behold. His already sallow face had completely drained of all remaining color, leaving his eyes to glow starkly against that sickly pallor. Whether he regarded her more with anger or shock she could not guess; she had been brazen enough to arouse the former and honest enough to elicit the latter. These both soon made way for a third emotion which was almost foreign to the Potions master's face, and which Meli would have resented had it come from anyone else: pity. She felt her own eyes widen.

"Twenty points _to_ Gryffindor for your painful honesty, Miss Stafford," Snape said at last. "Though I cannot fathom _how_ you screwed up the courage to speak to me in such a way."

She smiled now, a touch of her trademark mischief resurfacing. "Well, sir, I _am_ a Gryffindor, after all," she replied. "And if Gryffindors aren't brazen to the point of out-and-out stupidity, I am quite at a loss to say who _is_."

One corner of Snape's mouth quirked in what might have been the beginnings of a faint smile. "I suggest you go to lunch, Miss Stafford," he replied. "Before I get carried away and make it thirty."

She stood, grinning. "Certainly, sir. Have a lovely afternoon—unless, of course, dismal would suit you more."

"You're still alive!" Collum observed in surprised relief as she exited the Potions room.

She looked mildly at him, then turned to Crim and Sharpie, who had obviously spent more time betting about how many points Gryffindor had lost than worrying about her health. "Nice to see you, too. Who's hungry?"

"Not before you give us the final tally," Sharpie said firmly.

She raised her eyebrows. "Not only did Gryffindor receive back its fifteen, we earned five more."

"Now I _know_ you're lying," Collum laughed, then caught the look in her eye and abruptly sobered. "Bloody—You're not lying!"

"You'd better watch that mouth of yours, or we'll lose them all over again," Meli warned dryly.

Crim grinned. "You're going to have to teach _me_ to negotiate. I could use some help with that old bird McGonagall—"

"Later," Meli interrupted. "There's a more pressing matter to take care of."

"_Really._" Crim crossed her arms and looked appraisingly at her. "I'm listening."

Meli narrowed her eyes to reptilian slits. "Flint took on one of the Skulkers with impunity," she said, her tone deadly. "That means war."

"You wouldn't have brought it up if you didn't already have a plan," Sharpie murmured, his eyes flitting from side to side to make sure no one was close enough to overhear.

Now Meli grinned wickedly. "A _brilliant_ plan," she agreed. "And the beauty of it is that Professor Snape himself gave me the idea for it."

"I like it already," Crim said, also grinning. "Let's hear it."

****

PRESENT: LATE NOVEMBER

Meli did not stir from her rooms again until she could do so without a visible show of pain or impaired movement. Once that goal was reached, however, she was out of bed and dressed almost immediately, and her next action was to make her way as rapidly as possible to the hospital wing. As wretched as Voldemort's torture must have left him, there was no other place for Zarekael to have ended up.

She tracked down Poppy Pomfrey, and there she encountered a serious check. As obstinate as Meli could be when pushed to it, Poppy was ten times more so on a regular basis.

"Absolutely _no visitors_!" the mediwitch insisted stubbornly. "Zarekael is very ill and needs undisturbed rest!"

"Poppy, ordinarily I wouldn't argue with you," Meli replied, trying desperately to be reasonable. "But in this case, I _have_ to speak with Zarekael as soon as possible!"

Poppy set her jaw. "I'm sorry, Meli," she said, quite unapologetically. "He's asleep, and he needs to stay that way for awhile. Come by in a few days; perhaps by then he'll be fit for visitors."

Meli left reluctantly, and though impatience created incurable frustration, she could understand why Poppy was so adamant. Zarekael must have been nearly dead by the time Snape had been able to bring him in. Still, even a slow-acting healing charm shouldn't require more than two or three days to take effect.

As it turned out, however, Meli's hopes were unfounded. Perhaps they would have held true for Snape, but Zarekael was, as she sometimes forgot, not human, and that fact had apparently resulted in the necessity for a much longer healing cycle. Meli forced herself to badger Poppy only once a day, but her impatience grew worse as the days passed and Zarekael was still sequestered in a private room under Poppy's care. One week passed, and as the end of the second drew near, Meli's composure was beginning to slip. Her temper short, she actually threatened at one point to remove Malfoy's hand at the wrist as penalty for having raised it under false pretenses (she knew for a fact that he had never seen a Muggle representation of Dracula).

At last, however, Poppy made the welcome declaration that Zarekael was well enough for visitors. Added to that, unfortunately, was the news that he had already been released from the hospital wing and allowed to return to his own rooms.

"How long ago?" Meli demanded.

Poppy frowned in slight disapproval, but consulted the clock. "About half an hour," she replied.

Meli ran all the way to the dungeons, slowing down only as she came to the final set of stairs. Down these she stealthily crept, not wishing to alert any Slytherins who might happen to be hovering outside of their common room. She would have a hard enough time talking to Zarekael without the unwanted addition of someone listening in.

She slipped around the corner at the foot of the stairs, half-expecting to see Zarekael standing there as he had the first time she'd met him. He was not, of course, and she moved quietly on, the faint sound of raised voices in the Potions room wafting toward her, though she could make out no words. A loud slam sounded as she neared the last turning before the Potions room, and she came around it just in time to see Zarekael storming down the corridor toward his rooms. She started after him, but the sound of the door again opening—more quietly this time—sent her ducking back around the corner.

She pulled up the hood on her duster, then eased one eye around the corner. Professor McGonagall had stepped into the corridor and now moved swiftly to catch up with Zarekael, who, angry as he seemed, still moved quite deliberately and stiffly. McGonagall laid a hand on his back and seemed to say something to him, but Meli could not hear her voice. The two of them reached the hallway leading to his rooms, then turned and passed out of sight.

Meli swiftly buttoned up her duster, covering her blue blouse—the only non-black garment she wore. Now ready for shadow-skulking, she slipped around the corner again and crossed the corridor diagonally, putting her out of the lines of sight for anyone outside of Slytherin's common room or coming out of the Potions room. She stood just up the corridor from the doorway of that latter room, listening for any sign of approach. When she was satisfied that she was more or less alone, she sidestepped a few feet up the corridor, then dashed silently across and up it to duck into an alcove on the far side, opposite the entrance to Snape's rooms. From where she stood, she had a clear view of the doors to both Zarekael's and Snape's quarters and to the Potions room; the alcove was shadowy and just deep enough that she felt sufficiently concealed. In all possible ways, it was a virtually ideal hiding place, given her lack of choice in the matter.

While she waited a seeming eternity for McGonagall to leave, she amused herself by mentally reciting "The Highwayman", but the other professor took so long that she also made it through "Paul Revere's Ride" and started into "Tam O'Shanter". About the time Tam saw the devil playing bagpipes on the church altar, Meli heard footsteps approaching from the direction of the Potions classroom. She hugged the alcove wall and eased one eye past the corner to watch for whoever it was that was coming. A group of disgruntled-looking wizards with the unmistakable air of Aurors left the Potions room and turned left to leave the dungeons. A moment later, Dumbledore came into sight, walking steadily up the corridor toward her. He looked disinterestedly to his left, his gaze passing over Meli but never settling on her, then turned to his right, arriving shortly at Zarekael's quarters, where he, too, entered.

Meli gritted her teeth. If one more person went in, she'd know for certain that Zarekael was throwing a party and had neglected to invite her. As things stood now, however, her sure knowledge was limited to the fact that she might very well be skulking in the alcove all night waiting to talk with Zarekael alone. Slowly, forcing patience, she resumed her silent recitation.

Tam's poor horse had finally lost her tail fleeing from witches when McGonagall and Dumbledore emerged, interrupting the beginning of Meli's mental recitation of "Thanatopsis". She paused immediately, once more hugging the wall and watching with one eye as they passed her. Dumbledore again made several cursory glances about him, but as none came to rest on her, she continued to breathe easily, if quietly. He and McGonagall turned back down the Potions corridor, passing eventually out of her visual scope. She counted off another two minutes, but no one else came into sight, and the only footsteps she heard were those of the retreating teachers.

Meli crept silently forth from the alcove, leaping softly across the Potions corridor, then hugging the wall all the way down to Zarekael's door. When she stood directly opposite her goal, she paused briefly to take a deep breath; the easy and fun part of her task was past, giving way to a much more difficult one. She somewhat composed herself, lowered her hood, stepped across, and knocked loudly.

There was a short pause, then Zarekael's voice, sounding more impatient than normal, answered, "If you're a student, find Snape. If you're not . . . I'm not in the mood for visitors."

He was most certainly in a foul mood if he neglected to attach a respectful title to Snape's name, Meli thought darkly, already knocking again. "Zarekael," she called, "I have to talk with you. **_Now._**"

It took him over a minute to reach the door, but at last it opened and he glared down at her from above an untidy, untucked linen shirt. "Say what you have to say, then leave," he growled.

Meli forced her eyes and voice to harden. He could well be her enemy, after all. "I don't think you want this said out in the corridor," she replied coldly.

Zarekael looked at her wearily and warily for a long moment, then grudgingly stepped aside and motioned for her to enter. She did so, more acutely aware than ever of the strange creeping sensation his presence sent crawling over her spine. Tinúviel Everett, Severus Snape, and Zarekael . . . What did it mean? 

He had turned his back to the entryway wall as she entered and now turned it to the door, which he closed with his right hand, his intent eyes never leaving her.

_He's not turning his back to me,_ she realized, a silent alarm going off in the back of her mind. Instinctively, she reciprocated, backing out of the entryway and into the main room, her own eyes riveted to him.

There was an armchair to her right. She took one further step back diagonally to put it between him and herself, catching sight as she did of his wand, which lay on a low table beside the chair. Inwardly, she frowned; even in quarters, few wizards or witches ever kept their wands out of reach.

Zarekael was clearly as aware of her movements as she was of his. He cautiously stepped to his right, then moved around her. She followed him around until they had nearly switched places. Turned as she now was, Meli still stood between him and his wand, and there was another armchair, facing the first, now between the two of them. It would offer cover to either of them, but it also provided an obstacle that would neutralize Zarekael's greater reach if Meli should need to get away from him.

In her peripheral vision, she now caught sight of another potential factor. The fireplace was almost directly to her left, and beside it stood a stand with a wicked-looking spear. Above the mantle were crossed for display a long sword and a single-bladed ax. They appeared decorative . . . but knowing Zarekael as she did, Meli was under no illusions as to their usefulness. By luck, she had placed herself in such a way that he would have to get past her to reach any of his weapons, practical or magical.

It was not at all comforting to take comfort in such a fact when facing a friend.

He motioned to the first armchair she had seen. "Would you care to sit?" he offered.

She crossed her arms. "No. Thank you."

He seemed to wilt slightly at her response, but still he looked at her expectantly.

_Best to be a Gryffindor about it._ She took a deep breath. "Are you a Death Eater?" she asked. "And if so, are you a spy?"

Zarekael's eyes widened slightly in surprise. Whatever he'd expected her to say, this was plainly not it. He was silent a moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice was solemn. "Ebony . . . what would you have me say?" he countered. "Either way, I've destroyed your trust in me. If I say I'm not a Death Eater, you will not believe me. If I say I am, you have every reason not to trust me."

Meli stiffened at his use of her formal name. It was a ploy she herself might have used: complete detachment to eliminate any possibility of emotional appeal—or the appearance of it.

She well took his point, however; he was stuck in the worst kind of catch-twenty-two, and it was at least partly her doing. She consciously uncrossed her arms and dropped them to her sides. Though her wand tip now rested in her right palm, her posture was less threatening, which might help to diffuse the situation somewhat.

She looked him squarely in the eye. "Whether or not you trust me, Zarekael," she said evenly, "at least believe me when I say that, whatever you say, I will believe you."

His gaze measured her for a moment, then, wordlessly, he rolled up his right sleeve. Meli frowned—who should know better than she that the Dark Mark was burned into the _left _arm?

Cold shock washed over her, though, for there on his right arm was a grinning skull with a reptilian figure wrapped around it. Before she could react, Zarekael was already rolling up his left sleeve to reveal the same mark on that arm, as well.

Meli met his eyes, then took a step forward to examine the markings more closely. The reptile was a dragon, not a snake, and it hugged the skull rather than coming forth from its mouth. She looked up again and arched an eyebrow. "That's still not an answer," she told him quietly. "It is, but it isn't."

As if in reply, Zarekael grasped his left arm over the Mark and gave her a pointed, pained look.

Meli set her mouth, determined to have a direct answer from him for the sake of her safety, as well as Snape's. "Do you answer to Voldemort?" she demanded.

"Yes," he replied.

She stared at him, surprised at so ready an admission . . . but it belatedly occurred to her that Zarekael, like Snape and even like herself, could be notorious for word games and literalism when it suited him. _All right,_ she thought, _same question, different phrasing._

"Do you serve the Dark Lord?" she asked deliberately.

Zarekael's answer was every bit as deliberate. "I have _never truly_ served . . . Voldemort," he replied, his eyes never leaving hers.

She closed her eyes as relief flooded over her, and she drew what she judged to be her first clean breath in over a fortnight.

Meli opened her eyes again to see that Zarekael still grasped his arm, but his knuckles had gone white and he was sweating profusely. She instinctively reached out to help him, then checked the movement, knowing that his aversion to pity probably rivaled her own.

"Can I help you?" she asked in a low voice.

He stood almost immediately in front of a potions worktable; to this he now turned, bracing himself on it as he grunted out an agonized "Yes."

Now that his back was finally to her, Meli saw at last what he had been trying to conceal, and her stomach turned. His white shirt was completely soaked through with congealing blood.

With no memory of how it came to be there, Meli discovered that her hand was clapped firmly over her mouth. She forced herself to lower it, forced her eyes to narrow back to a normal size, and watched as Zarekael turned slowly to lean against the worktable with his left side. He fumbled with the handful of buttons actually fastened on his shirt, then dropped his arms slowly and painfully to his sides.

Meli stepped around the armchair to face him. "Do you need help?" she asked again, carefully keeping pity from her expression.

He gave her a patient look that nevertheless bordered on a glower. She bit her lip. "Right," she muttered. "Stupid question."

She gingerly took hold of his right sleeve and started to ease it off, but the task required some lifting of his arm, which drew pained winces from both of them. Once his arm was free, she crossed behind him and began the grisly work of peeling the shirt free from his bloodied back. As gently as she did it, the pain it caused still sent wild spasms across his shoulders and back. What it revealed was worse still: a mass of soft, raw shred covered with sticky, gelled red fluid that had gone nearly black in some places.

"Who did this to you?" she whispered in horror, knowing it for another stupid question even as she asked it.

"I seem to have . . . annoyed . . . Voldemort," he replied dryly.

"Just a bit," she said, managing a similar tone as she stepped around to his left arm and pulled the remaining sleeve free. A pile of black cloth, reeking of blood, already lay on the worktable beside her, so she tossed the ruined shirt on top of it, unsure of what else to do.

Something else on the worktable caught her eye, though: a black leather harness with three sheaths, only two of which still contained knives. Something about the handles looked somehow familiar, but she could not place them. They were peculiarly ornate . . . She wondered suddenly where he had lost or placed the third knife. It chilled her slightly to notice, however, that he'd had two weapons within easy reach during their entire conversation. Swallowing hard, she moved back around to face Zarekael once more, only to find that the evening's surprises had not yet ended.

A pattern of old scars covered Zarekael's chest and torso— several rectangular burns over each pectoral, a deep slash across his abdomen, and what looked like tears and rips down his torso—telling a tale of torture and violence by far predating his initiation to the Death Eaters. Another scar was present, as well: a carved design that Meli recognized from the armor Zarekael and Snape had worn at Halloween. He would never have received such treatment from Snape; these must all have been from his life before Hogwarts.

He had been brutally tortured before the age of eleven.

She did not bother to hide her widened eyes this time, nor did she again refuse the seat that Zarekael offered. Once she was sitting, he pivoted to sit saddle-style in the straight-backed chair at his worktable.

"That's why you recognized my name that day we met," Meli at last observed, her voice quiet. "They would have told you about me."

Zarekael was silent, obviously feeling that she needed no verbal confirmation, but a sardonic quirk touched his mouth, speaking volumes.

"Right," she murmured. "And now, having voiced that epiphany, I can move on with my life."

"Have you eaten?" Zarekael asked abruptly.

Meli was a bit taken aback, but she made a rapid recovery. Smiling wryly, she answered, "Er, no. I was rather too busy skulking."

Zarekael's eyes narrowed in amusement. "Dobby brought my dinner earlier." He slowly raised an arm to indicate the bedroom doorway.

She regarded him coolly, unsure of what should come next, but she resolved to follow his cues and respond fittingly.

She cleared the few items on the table beside her, moving them to one side, with the exception of Zarekael's wand, which she handed to him. Then she raised her own wand toward the bedroom. "_Accio_ dinner tray." A few seconds later, the tray came floating through the doorway to rest on the table.

Meli intentionally avoided looking at Zarekael, leaving him to do as he pleased and to cue her accordingly. She busied herself slicing and buttering bread and pouring tea into the one cup Dobby had provided. She looked up only when Zarekael's shadow crossed the tray, and when she did, she saw that he was holding a clean potions beaker and a narrow vial. These he set on the tray and proceeded to transfigure into a teacup and a fork, respectively. He offered her another amused look, then sat carefully in the armchair facing hers, leaning forward to avoid touching his back to the rough upholstery.

She finished pouring the tea, then handed him a cup. He accepted it with a nod of thanks.

"Do you mind," Meli asked hesitantly, "if I ask what all that row was with the Aurors?"

Zarekael looked mildly at her. "Not at all," he replied, then fell silent.

Meli smiled coolly. "Caught in my own trap," she sighed. "All right, then. What _was_ the row about?"

A shrewd veil passed over Zarekael's eyes. "My father has . . . found it expedient to disappear for awhile," he told her.

"Ah." She smirked. "No further questions, milord."

It belatedly occurred to her at this juncture just what it all must look like to someone unacquainted with the circumstances. She, an unattached female, having a very surreal dinner with a shirtless, unattached male colleague . . . She closed her eyes, suddenly very grateful that there was absolutely no chance of either Lavendar Brown or Parvati Patil walking in on them. The last thing either she or Zarekael needed at the moment was to have to deal with awkward explanations and rampant scandalous rumors.

On the bright side, she reflected randomly, at least it wouldn't end up splashed across the front page of the _Daily Prophet_. Ever since the mysterious, if unlamented, retirement of Rita Skeeter, the magical community had been refreshingly lacking in scandal.


	16. Crimson Blood

AUTHOR'S COMMENT: Thank you to my reviewers for your kind words. Krew, in response to your questions, I direct your attention to the "Collaborator's Note" at the beginning of the story. Snarky has not posted yet, nor do either she or I have any idea of when that happy event will take place; lab rotations, classes, and papers take up a lot of time—one reason _I_ didn't post until after I'd graduated. ****

Chapter 16: Crimson Blood

2 SEPTEMBER 1979, FIRST YEAR

There was a free day between the Welcome Feast and the first day of classes. Meli supposed that this time was meant to be spent in a flurry of bonding with her new roommates and making friends among her Housemates, but she had little interest in doing either. She was convinced that the Sorting Hat had mis-Sorted her; it was becoming increasingly clear that she was not a pure Gryffindor—not, she reflected, that she'd be happier in Slytherin. One silver lining to that cloud would have been Crim Fell's company, however; as predicted, Crim had been Sorted into Slytherin, as had Sharpie. Collum had wound up in Gryffindor with Meli, but in her estimation, he was far too much of a Gryffindor for her truly to identify with him—ever.

She wondered seriously if there was now any chance of her and Crim being friends. Inter-House friendships were rare, and friendships between Gryffindors and Slytherins were entirely unheard of. Should such an anomaly form, the nastiest consequences would fall on Crim; at worst, Meli would be rejected by her Housemates, but since she already isolated herself, that wouldn't bother her in the least. Crim, on the other hand, could well find herself the victim of pure Slytherin malice that would result in seven years of very miserable dormitory life. It was with firmness, then, though not without regret, that Meli resolved to drop the matter entirely from her mind.

And really, it was for the best; she was a deadly liability to anyone she was foolish enough to befriend, no matter what their House.

That resolve lasted her a full ten hours, during eight of which she was asleep.

Meli was on her way from breakfast to Gryffindor Tower when a slim, black-robed figure stepped out of an alcove and into her path. She looked up in some surprise, which was not in the least dissipated when she recognized Crimson Fell.

"Hullo, Meli," Crim said in an undertone. "I know you'd probably prefer not to be seen with me, but could I have a word?"

Meli nearly smiled with relief as Crim pulled her back into the shadowy alcove.

"I don't regret where either of us ended up, but it's something of a drag they had to be rival Houses," Crim began. "Still, if you don't mind associating with a Slytherin, I hope we might still be friends."

Now Meli did smile. "I hoped the same," she replied. "But aren't you risking a hazing?"

Crim grinned wickedly. "No. They tried to 'initiate' me last night, but I soon put them to rights with a few hexes I'm not supposed to know yet." She smirked. "Sharpie didn't fare so well, though. I wonder if he wasn't mis-Sorted."

"I know _I_ was," Meli muttered. "There's something not right when a Slytherin is the only one who sounds sensible to Gryffindor ears."

Crim shrugged. "All that means is you've got more sense than anyone else in your House. I'd take it as a compliment."

"Maybe," Meli conceded. "But I still think I'm in the wrong House."

Crim looked appraisingly at her for a long, silent moment. Finally: "You had an omen of some sort that convinced you you'd be in Slytherin, didn't you?"

Meli stared at her. "How—?"

"Prankster's instinct," Crim replied. "If you really want to give someone a good scare, you've got to know what'll make her flip her wig—or what's already made her flip her wig."

"Right." Meli sighed. "It's my wand." She drew it out to show to her new friend.

"Cherry wood," Crim observed. "Supposed to be good for Transfiguration, right?" She arched an eyebrow. "So what happened?"

Meli was not inclined to explain the wand's core; the rest of the story was bad enough. "As soon as I took hold of it, it let out a cloud of pink smoke . . . then a green light like a cobra came out of the tip and made a dash at Ollivander."

"And what did he do?"

Meli shook her head. "He laughed it off, said it was a peculiar wand but it was obviously mine."

"Well . . . Crim shrugged. "Maybe it just means you're a Parselmouth."

"Parsel—" Meli stared at her. "_Just_ a Parselmouth? Crim, if I am, do you have any idea what that means?" She knew full well that she was a Parselmouth, but she had no intention of parting with that information; it was a fact which frightened her and of which she was not at all proud.

Crim, however, gave her a patient look. "My dear Meli," she sighed, resting a hand on the other's shoulder. "Let me tell you a secret that hardly anyone knows: a Parselmouth is nothing more or less than someone who can converse with snakes. Those people are rare, and I personally believe that a disproportionate number of them don't deserve the honor, but there you have it. You're not doomed to be the next You-Know-Who or even one of his followers, and you're _definitely_ not a shoo-in for Slytherin House just on that fact alone. If you're a Parselmouth, it just means you have a grasp of an unusually creepy language—that's all." She smiled knowingly. "But of course, since no one knows whether or not you actually _are_ one . . ."

Meli saw in the other girl's eye that Crim understood perfectly the truth of the matter without hearing it said aloud. She knew instinctively, though, that Crimson Fell would never betray her, just as she would never betray Crim.

"Wands are such a boring topic," the Slytherin said smoothly. "What do you think of pranks as an alternative?"

"I don't know anything about pranks," Meli replied solemnly.

"Something which Collum and I intend to change," Crim told her. "Sharpie, too, once the formidable Madame Pomfrey is through torturing him with the Skele-Gro—assuming he survives, of course."

Meli raised her eyebrows. "Skele-Gro?" she echoed.

Crim grinned again. "Oh, yes. Our Head of House walked in on it before they could finish, but by the time he got to the hospital wing, he hadn't any bones in his arms or legs. They were starting on his ribs—fascinating lot, those Slytherins."

"Suddenly Gryffindor doesn't seem so bad."

"You'll survive," Crim assured her. "I'll see to it personally."

****

PRESENT: MID-DECEMBER

She didn't hear the door open, didn't hear anyone slip inside, most certainly didn't hear the foe-approach devices, which remained oddly silent. Her first idea that anything was amiss was the sound of a throat being cleared. That failure of her preternatural hearing was in itself disturbingly strange.

Crimson reacted instantly, dropping her book and standing to face the intruder. Her brow slowly unfurrowed, however, when she saw who it was.

"Hullo, Sharpie," she said cautiously, already fingering her wand.

His answer was only two words, a command sent by the wand he'd held hidden in his hand, the result of which caught her powerfully and painfully in her midsection. Her mouth filled with fluid. She choked, then coughed, spilling it out onto her open hand—a rich, red flood.

It flowed past her open lips now, rolling from her chin to the floor below.

"Why—?" she managed, then saw, just before the darkness took her for good, the cold, horrifying answer to that question. The Dark Mark was her last sight in the world of the living.

Meli was halfway through a rapid review of hinkypunks when Snape burst in. To the students' eyes, he looked more than usually angry; to Meli's, he was visibly agitated. She carefully maintained her calm mask, merely arching an inquisitive eyebrow as though his entrance was perfectly normal.

"What can I do for you, Professor Snape?" she asked evenly.

"A moment of your time, please," he replied shortly. "Professor McGonagall has said she will oversee your class."

McGonagall had indeed entered behind Snape, far more sedately, but she looked no less worried. She smiled encouragingly and nodded Meli out of the room behind the Potions master. Meli followed him down the corridor and out into a small courtyard, then stopped, crossing her arms.

"All right, Severus, who's dead?"

He whipped around and lanced her with a piercing look. "How did you know?" he demanded.

She swallowed the fear that tightened her throat. "What else would throw you into such a tizzy?" she countered, the first touch of raggedness touching her voice.

His mouth tightened. "Crimson Fell," he said quietly. "I'm very sorry."

"How?" It was always her first question; she took comfort in settled routine even as she knew that nothing could comfort her now.

Snape hesitated, then replied, "We don't know. A Muggle found her; she's in the custody of London's Muggle law enforcement." His expression turned sour. "They're looking for someone to positively identify the body; Donald Fell is . . . unavailable, but he sent an owl to Dumbledore." He handed her a letter.

She read it slowly, and a wave of nausea nearly swept her to the ground. "Even now," she whispered incredulously. "He really did hate her." Her eyes fell out of focus for a moment, then returned to zero in on Snape's face. "I will go," she stated.

He nodded solemnly. "I thought you would." He motioned for her to follow him once more. "Dumbledore wants to speak with you first."

She hardly heard Dumbledore express his condolences, completely missed his assurance that her regular duties would be seen to in her absence. A strange, familiar void had opened inside of her, threatening to swallow her heart and soul if she gave it opportunity. Only one person could have found Crim so soon; if, as she suspected, Crim had died magically, Dirk Pierce was directly responsible.

Betrayal, anger, and hatred tantalized her, but she could afford them no ground; they would only poison her in the end, and dishonor Crim's memory in the meantime. She walked as in a trance to the Forbidden Forest and the perimeter of Hogwarts' apparation shield. Soon enough she would separate from herself, or she would return to reality; there was no way to know which until it actually happened.

"I'll go with her, Headmaster," she heard Snape say. "Just to be sure she arrives safely."

They materialized in the alley behind the Leaky Cauldron. Snape's eyes rested concernedly on Meli, but after a few minutes of concentrated effort, she regained her composure and emerged in the real world once more.

"I'll see you after, Severus," she said quietly, then turned and entered the Leaky Cauldron. Unsure what else to do, Snape returned to Hogwarts.

Her first battle won for the moment, Meli was able to proceed more naturally. She was grateful for a restored clarity of thought that allowed her to slip through the streets of London as easily as if she actually belonged there. It also belatedly occurred to her to be grateful for the winter weather; her cloak did not stand out as oddly as it ordinarily would in the Muggle world. Moreover, she was thankful for her own eclectic taste in clothing; it wouldn't do to attract the unwanted attention that must necessarily accompany the wearing of witch's robes in Muggle London.

She arrived at the police station mentioned in Donald's letter sweaty, physically worn-out, and fervently wishing that she hadn't left her car in America. Her warm appearance in such cold weather raised a few eyebrows, but she was eventually shown into the one room she most dreaded.

"You all right, Miss Ebony?" the officer with her asked softly. "You don't have to do this just yet."

"No." She fought for control of her voice. "If I don't do it now, I'll never be able to." She forced a smile, but there was little courage in it. She watched as the sheet was pulled back, revealing a pale face tinged blue, framed by waves of thick brown hair. Blood crusted the chin and neck, flowing from the corners of a mouth that had in life been given equally to smirks and maniacal grins.

It was several minutes before Meli found her voice. "That's her," she choked out. "Crimson Fell—my best friend." To her surprise, a sob escaped. She had not cried since Death Eaters had killed her parents fourteen years before. "How did it happen?" she asked through another sob as tears began to flow. _So this is what it's like to grieve in the real world . . ._

"We're not sure," the coroner replied. "Cause of death appears to be massive internal hemorrhaging, but we've no idea how it started. There's no outside trauma, which is unusual—to say the least."

"Had she died by obvious accident, she wouldn't be at a police station," Meli said. "Do you think she was murdered?"

The coroner seemed to be chewing at his upper lip. The officer beside Meli cleared his throat.

"Did your friend Miss Fell have any cultic or Occultic associations that you know of?" he asked.

Sick certainty churned her stomach. _Dirk, you beast._ "What are you talking about?" she whispered.

In answer, the coroner handed over a Muggle photograph of what Meli took to be the inside of Crim's arm. In the soft flesh below the elbow was carved, as if with a knife, a crude rendering of a Dark Mark, below which were carved the letters _D S P._

_Dirk Stephen Pierce._

"These markings were made post mortem," the officer told her. "Did she run afoul of someone that might have done this to her, so far as you know?"

"No," Meli whispered. _Crim_ hadn't . . . and to give up too much information here would be to involve Muggles, which was the last thing anyone decent wanted. Voldemort and his brutes chose to include others—she swallowed hard as the vision of Elizabeth's blood-spattered face hovered in her mind—but in the end, this battle was between herself and Voldemort. She had taken extraordinary precautions to keep others out of it, and she would continue to do so.

"If the marks were made after she was already dead, could they have been intended as a message to someone?"

The officer eyed her keenly. "Possibly," he conceded cautiously. "Any idea who the message might be for?"

She let out an odd cross between a sob and a hysterical laugh. "I don't know," she lied. "I—I'm grasping, I suppose. It was a fleeting thought."

"Excuse me?"

The three of them turned to find a woman about Meli's age standing in the doorway. She wore a trim navy pantsuit, but it was her no-nonsense expression and the badge in her hand that gave her an official air. To Meli's eyes, there was something subtly American about her . . . but that could be just because she knew who the woman was.

"Yes?" the officer replied.

The woman stepped forward, her badge aloft. "I'm Agent Kimberly Hiller," she said, her accent very American. "FBI, A Division. I understand you've got a body tentatively identified as Crimson Fell."

"Officially identified now," the officer confirmed, frowning. "If you don't mind my asking, why does the FBI care?"

"I don't mind your asking," Hiller replied coolly. "And to answer your question, Miss Fell is a naturalized American citizen."

In spite of herself, Meli smiled inwardly. Trust Crim to pull a stunt to bring in another government and create a confusing mess that would allow the Ministry of Magic to slip in.

Hiller's eyes now rested solidly on Meli. "Friend of the deceased?" she asked, still with a detached, official tone.

Before the officer could go chivalrous on her, Meli cleared her throat and pulled herself together. "I am," she stated, meeting those hard eyes with the blue steel of her own gaze. "I've just heard about this nasty business, and I've had to identify the body of a dear friend, all in one day. The last time I was this much of a wreck, I would probably have tried to kill myself if I hadn't met up with people who took the time out of their busy lives to give half a care. If you'd like this time to work out differently—" She broke off, manufacturing another sob.

There had been a great deal more than words to that exchange, but it was completely lost on the coroner and the police officer. Hiller bit her lip and put away her badge.

"Okay, I'm a jerk." The American held up her hands in surrender. "I _would_ like to ask you a few questions, but how about some lunch first?"

Meli eyed her narrowly, purely for the Muggles' benefit. "Are you paying?" she countered coolly.

Hiller shrugged, taking it in stride. "Sure."

"Do you need anything further from me?" Meli asked the officer, who shook his head. "Then I suppose I'll be going to lunch," she sighed, then shuffled out of the room with a weariness that was not at all feigned.

They were six blocks from the police station before Meli judged it was safe. "Andrea, you sneak!" she hissed, grinning. "What are you doing here?"

Her former roommate replied, with a carnivorous smile, "I'm with the Aurors' Division, you nutzo. Whaddaya _think_ I'm doing here?"

"The FBI has an Aurors' Division?"

The other nodded. "The American Ministry set it up, of course. Only a handful of Muggles know about it, and most of the time we function as regular field agents." Now she looked shrewdly at her friend. "But when things go haywire—_X-Files_-style, if you get my drift—they divert us to handle those cases." She chewed the inside of her lip thoughtfully. "Call it luck of the draw, if you want, but my partner and I were assigned to this one."

"And Crim's actually an American citizen?"  
"Oh, yes." Andrea smiled coolly, looking for all the world like one of Meli's pets. "She did it awhile ago, before the British Aurors had slipped into local law enforcement as effectively as we managed to do."

Meli sighed. "Are you still on about American superiority?" she grumbled.

Andrea smirked. "I don't have to be in this case," she rejoined. "The facts speak for themselves. Now in the liquor department, on the other hand, I'll concede that we've never done as well as you guys."

"Still can't get a decent lager Stateside?"

"Or ale, or scotch—unless it's imported, of course."

Meli clapped her on the shoulder. "Well, in that case, I'll take you to a pub where you can get some decent drink," she said. "I only wish . . ." She gulped.

"That circumstances were better?" Andrea finished soberly.

Meli nodded, her spirits lowering a bit as she did. She felt suddenly guilty for at all enjoying herself, however slightly, while her best friend lay dead in a police morgue.

"Don't _even_ think it, girl," Andrea snapped, not even having to look at her. "Your job is to help me find the son of a motherless goat who did this to her. There's no room for unnecessary guilt, so you just drop it at the door right now."

They found a table in a dark corner of the Leaky Cauldron and kept as quiet as possible. They avoided small talk once their food and drinks were set down, keeping instead to the grisly, but necessary, business at hand.

"My partner's handling the paperwork and other assorted crap to get Crimson's body out of there," Andrea assured Meli. "He's got a lot higher tolerance for red tape and bureaucrats than I do, so I get to handle interviews." She raised her eyebrows and smiled ironically. "I could hardly believe it when they said there was a young woman there to identify her—I knew it had to be you."

"You'll get considerably more help this way," Meli replied bitterly. "Crim's parents are unreachable through Muggle channels—probably magical channels, too. Collum went missing in June, and Donald the Hufflepuff has disowned all of them."

Andrea's eyes widened incredulously. "He wouldn't even go in to ID her?" she breathed.

Meli handed over the letter Snape had pressed into her numbed hand a few hours before. "He's pretty clear, don't you think?"

Andrea let out a low whistle as she returned the parchment a moment later. "With a brother like that," she mused, "who needs enemies?"

"Well, Crim's got enemies, too," Meli said. "All of mine."

"Okay." Andrea nodded. "So which of that laundry list of scumbags do you think did this?"

"I don't think it. I know it."

Andrea looked measuringly at her. "So which slimebucket was it?" she asked again.

Meli took a deep breath. "Only one knew her well enough to have found her so quickly," she said. "Only one would have signed his bloody initials."

Andrea nodded. "Okay."

"Dirk Pierce."

The lighting in the Leaky Cauldron wasn't all that great, but Meli saw clearly the sick pallor that conquered Andrea's face almost immediately. "I got the report that he'd turned," the American murmured, "but I thought for sure it was a ploy—that he was a spy. I never thought any of the Skulkers would ever really turn; you just don't have the profiles for it."

"Well, apparently none of us knew him as well as we thought we did," Meli muttered. "If he was an infiltrator, even if it was demanded of him as a test of loyalty, Dirk would have found a way to avoid killing one of us. This act proves two things: first, that he cares nothing for the rest of the Skulkers, and secondly, that he has most definitely turned."

A stray, disturbing thought lodged suddenly in her mind: Dirk had been a recent initiate when he had shown her his Dark Mark. Could he have been the one to have killed the Goldens? That seemed somehow wrong, but the timing would have been about right . . . No. Dirk Pierce would not have been strong enough to have broken John's ribcage open by hand, and the coroner had confirmed that the break had most certainly been done by hand.

Something further about that bothered Meli, but she could not place it yet.

Andrea, meanwhile, had continued the conversation. "But he _warned_ you, Meli," she pointed out with a frown. "That counts for _something_, doesn't it?"

"Yes." Meli also knit her brows. "For something, but not for much. Not enough, anyway."

"You said he signed his initials," Andrea recalled. "What do you mean by that?"

Meli described briefly the carving on Crim's arm, not neglecting to add that the Muggles had attributed an Occultic significance to it.

"Interesting that they'd see it that way," Andrea mused. "And yet, how could they not, after all? Carvings are odd, even with Death Eaters involved, and a carving with a skull and a snake . . . well, maybe a tasteless biker gang killed her off, but more likely they'd attribute it to a coven, say it was a ritual killing, and call it unsolved." She shook her head. "But from what I hear, anyway, this doesn't match your typical ritual slaying profile. It definitely doesn't explain cause of death." She arched an inquisitive eyebrow.

_Ritual killing . . . What is it about that parallel between Crim and the Goldens that's bothering me?_

She forced herself to shrug, a shudder turning it into a strange, jerking motion. "You'd probably be able to determine that better than I could do," she said, not entirely truthfully. "My guess is that it was some form of Sangriatus curse, either a Cavidatum or Internum."

"We've been pushing to get those put on the Unforgivables list at least since my first year at Blackwing," Andrea growled through clenched teeth. "Just as final as a _Kedavra_, and a whole lot nastier in the meantime."

"So I hear." She stared at the table for a long moment, then said, "He didn't use an Unforgivable to kill her. The Sharpie I knew was an all-or-nothing sort. Do you think he's afraid of a life sentence at Azkaban?"

Andrea gave her a deadly smile. "If I were him, I'd be a whole lot more worried about getting caught by the American Aurors. He killed an American, remember, and we have freer rein than the Brits and a lot of nastier punishments than even Azkaban in our arsenal." She frowned thoughtfully. "No, I don't think he chickened out. I think he's being consistently all-or-nothing. I mean, which would you rather do to an old friend, kill her instantly and relatively painlessly, or kill her slowly and with a lot more pain? He used one of the slowest-acting Sangriatus curses, Meli; he could have used a Venarupturum and cut it short without earning a life sentence." She raised her eyebrows a hair. "Now, about you and Collum Fell—do either of you need increased protection?"

Meli pursed her lips thoughtfully. "No," she answered after a moment. "I've a fair idea of where Collum's holed up, and I know he wouldn't be hiding anyplace where he'd need extra protection in any case. He has a few tricks only I know about—Pierce killed the only other person who would know—and I'll carry that knowledge to my grave. Collum's safer than you, Andrea."

"And what about you?"

"Are you kidding?" Meli grinned wickedly. "I'm safest of all. If they harm a hair on my head, Voldemort will personally kill them for it—and he won't hesitate to use a slow Sangriatus or Suffocatus."

"Right," Andrea sighed. "Their first general order is to make your life miserable."

"Yes," Meli said dryly. "Comforting, isn't it?"

Andrea glanced at her watch, then drained her glass. "Unfortunately, I have to go. Kevin'll probably be done with the paper pushers by the time I get back." She looked seriously at her friend. "Now, take my advice and go straight back to Hogwarts. We'll bag Pierce and beat him down so hard he'll be begging for a Dementor's kiss. You stay out of sight and make double-sure Collum does the same, instead of giving in to his baser Gryffindor nature, okay?" She stood and left the pub, entering Muggle London with a literal vengeance. Meli took a last sip of butterbeer, then left through the back.

She hesitated then, a split-second before disapparating. She was not yet willing to go back to Hogwarts and face people who recognized her, and the close proximity of Christmas gave her a ready excuse. She did not yet have a gift for . . . she furrowed her brow, thinking hard . . . Dumbledore! Of course! She hadn't even thought of getting a present for the headmaster before, but now she was quite grateful for that lapse and the excuse it provided.

She raised her hood and reached up to tap the bricks.

Fifteen minutes later, Meli was on her way back to the Leaky Cauldron, a small parcel tucked into her pocket. She stopped briefly to allow an elderly witch to cross in front of her, stiffened as her neck went cold—

And felt the tip of a wand settle firmly into her back.

She forced herself to relax and wait for the wand's owner to make his first move. He wasted no time, as she had known he would not.

"Skipping school, Meli?" he said, very close to her right ear. "Tsk, tsk. For shame. Did you really think you'd go unnoticed here? Especially with your hood up like that—very few witches slink about Diagon Alley with a hood instead of a hat."

"Hello, Pierce," she murmured. "Going to kill me, are you?"

He laughed coldly. "You know better than that," he admonished. "However . . . you happen to have some information I'd very much like you to share with me—information I'll obtain anyway, rest assured—concerning my dear old friend Collum."

"Go to Hell."

He again clicked his tongue reproachfully. "I'd be careful if I were you," he told her. "I'm sure you know by now what I'm capable of; I'd advise you to cooperate."

"Why?" Meli retorted. "So you don't have to jump-start that mismanaged lump of neurons in your head and actually _think_? God forbid that you should have to figure something out without my help or Crim's—oh, but wait; you _killed_ her! Killed her in a low, brutal, savage way, and vandalized her body so that everyone would know it was you. But you know, Pierce, anyone could have told it was you without your signature; your style is so singularly unimaginative and inelegant."  
She could hear him grinding his teeth behind her. "I _could_ put you under the Imperius curse and compel you to tell me," he growled, forging ahead with effort.

_Oh, no you can't!_ "You can rot in Hell, too, for all I care; it'll help your cause about as much." _At last, something to _thank_ my grandfather for: learned resistance to the Imperius._

"For the sake of old friendship, I'll let that pass," he hissed gracelessly. "But mark my words: the Dark Lord will be far more impressed than you are; I expect to rise quickly in his esteem, and then I may not have the luxury of being merciful."

_You bloody fool_, Meli thought, simultaneously horrified and awestruck at his abysmal stupidity. Aloud, she said, "I wouldn't be so hasty to come to that conclusion, if I were you. Voldemort may be impressed that you found Crimson Fell when no one else could, but as for your mode of killing her, you'll be lucky if _he_ doesn't kill _you_."

Pierce's wand tip turned painfully in her back. "What are you talking about?"

She smiled nastily. _Had you betrayed me, I could forgive you, but you betrayed Crim, and I'm going to enjoy every moment of this._ "You never understood what any of this is about, did you. This bane has _always_ been a feud between myself and Voldemort. He wanted no room left for anyone else, not even my grandfather. When I identified her body, I was supposed to remember my offense against Voldemort, but _you_ kept that from happening. Instead of letting him have the credit, you signed _your_ initials, which meant that you were really, ultimately, acting on your own initiative rather than his orders. You made it personal, setting yourself up as more important than him."

So quickly and suddenly that he could not react, she whirled to face him and snatched away his wand. "I have always had at my disposal information that would ensure your death at the hands of _any_ loyal Death Eater," she said dispassionately. "And I will tell you unequivocally that the _only_ reason I do not now part with it is that I want to see what Voldemort will have done to you." She raised derisive eyebrows. "Oh, what's the matter, Pierce?" she mocked. "Scared? Maybe you should run home and cry to your Muggle mummy. Maybe your Muggle daddy'll beat me up and make me leave you alone. Or maybe your Muggle—"

"Shut _up_!"

Meli burned through him with her eyes. "Come near me _ever_ again, Dirk Pierce, and so help me God, I will tell the world what a fraud you are. Make so much as a _feint_ in the direction of any more of my friends, and I will do to you whatever you do to them."

He withered under her glare, but there was some pathetic remnant within him that seemed to want, of all things, to be understood. "Why do you think I warned you off?" he asked, his voice actually showing a slight quaver.

Any chance of mercy he'd had with her had been annihilated by his pompousness at the beginning of their interview. She chose to respond with a lie—a low, stinging, stabbing lie that would anger him enough to allow her to walk away.

"I've a notion," she replied coldly, "that you fancy yourself in love with me. You warned me off because of an emotional attachment—because weak, repulsive romantic that you are, even the thirst for power and the fear of Voldemort couldn't keep you from thinking with your heart instead of your brain—or whatever _Muggle_ nuts-and-bolts amalgamated contraption it is that attempts to stand you in stead of a brain, you mis-Sorted fool of a would-be wizard. Even the Hufflepuffs are cleverer than you, and far more given to _thinking_ before they act."

His eyes were nearly popping out of his head in rage by the time she finished, and his face had darkened to a dangerous shade of purple.

"Now," she finished, delighted with her handiwork, "I am going to turn around and walk away, and if you so much as _watch_ me go, I _will _kill you."

He made no move to stop her; he was nearly petrified by his newfound hatred and fury. She turned and made a dozen strides, then tossed his wand in the gutter and went on her way.

_He ought to have known better,_ she thought sadly. _He's witnessed my temper, and he must by now have met my grandfather; he should have known that, at our cores, Grandfather and I are really not so very different. He ought not to have been surprised to see me at my worst._

It was nearly dinner time when she arrived back at Hogwarts, so she proceeded directly to the Great Hall and took her seat. Snape and Zarekael arrived a few minutes later, looking immensely pleased with themselves.

"Two hundred points from Gryffindor in my absence," she guessed.

"Only one hundred twenty," Snape replied. "But Malfoy arranged a four hundred point deduction from Slytherin, and no one seems quite willing to undo the transfiguration Miss Parkinson concocted to punish him."

"I'm almost afraid to ask."

In answer, Snape nodded towards the doorway, through which was entering the most appalling amalgamation of spare animal parts Meli had ever seen. It had five legs—three on its right side and two on its left—each from a different animal: parrot, leopard, pig, horse, and rabbit. A tail like a feather boa sailed harmlessly through the air behind it, occasionally blowing forward to swat at the thing's two ears (one belonging to a basset hound, the other to a domestic cat). The head was undifferentiated, but more animal than human; the body was an alarming cross between an elephant and a crocodile. The creature was nearly too large to step between the tables.

Meli felt her jaw drop. "_Malfoy?!_"

Snape actually grinned, and Meli's skin crawled at the sight. "Yes," he drawled. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

"And do you happen to know how Pansy Parkinson got her hands on a spell that could do that?" Meli inquired, her voice hushed in horror.

"No," Zarekael replied. "But we might happen to know how she worked up the necessary potion and how she got her hands on the recipe for it." He shrugged disinterestedly. "It should wear off in a few hours' time . . . we think."


	17. Talking It Through

****

Chapter 17: Talking It Through

Meli, Snape, and Dumbledore remained in the Great Hall after everyone else had left, then walked silently together to the headmaster's office. Meli noticed immediately the absence of all things sweet and sweet-smelling; Dumbledore had prepared for this meeting.

"Please, both of you, take a seat," he offered, indicating chairs near his desk. Snape and Meli did as bidden, the latter feeling a peculiar sense of anticipation as she did so. "And now, Meli," Dumbledore said gravely, sitting in his own chair. "What news from London?"

Meli forced her voice to detach from her heart; there was no need for quavering words here. "It is, indeed, Crimson Fell," she affirmed, quite calmly. "I feigned complete ignorance for the Muggles' benefit, and partial ignorance for the Auror's, but it's safe to tell you that she died from a Sangriatus Internum. She was killed by Dirk Pierce, and her body was found with a Dark Mark and Pierce's initials carved on one arm."

"Which Aurors have been assigned to the case?" Snape asked.

Meli smiled coolly. "I doubt either of you would know them," she replied. "Crim acquired American citizenship several years ago, allowing Aurors posing as FBI agents to enter the situation should she die by foul play. Two American Aurors—Agents Kimberly Hiller and Kevin Lane—are handling the investigation."

"That _is_ a stunt worthy of Miss Fell," Dumbledore remarked, smiling faintly.

"I thought so, too," Meli rejoined. "I've met Agent Hiller, and there are a few things I should tell you about her." She took a deep breath, well aware that Andrea would not appreciate her warning Snape about any of this. "Kimberly Hiller is an assumed name that allows her to blend in with Muggles and hide from Death Eaters." She shot Snape a pointed look. "Her actual name is Andrea Underhill, and she was my roommate at university in America. I would describe her as hyper-analytic, even compared with a Ravenclaw. She had me pegged as a witch and a potential threat less than five minutes after meeting me."

Snape seemed darkly amused. "She considered _you_ a potential threat," he repeated dryly.

Meli smirked. "I'm going to let that one pass this once," she told him. "But keep in mind that if she considers _me_ Death Eater potential, she'll do no less for either you or Zarekael." She looked now to Dumbledore. "I think it highly likely that she will come to Hogwarts shortly after the Christmas holidays. She'll want to compile as much information as possible on Pierce and Crim, and as long as she's in the neighborhood, she'll run up a file for Collum Fell, as well."

"Why Collum?" Dumbledore inquired.

"He and Crim went missing about the same time," she answered. "Andrea will want to see if he could possibly have had something to do with Crim's death, or if he himself is a victim and just hasn't been found yet."

Dumbledore looked thoughtfully at her for a moment, then asked, "Do you think it possible that Collum Fell is dead?"

Meli narrowed her eyes. "I very much doubt it," she replied. "I've recently heard from him." She bit her lip. "But I _am_ placed in an awkward position. If Collum was told all of the particulars of Crim's death, he would leave off hiding to hunt down and try to kill Dirk Pierce. Even if I only told him that Death Eaters in general had killed her, he would still behave stupidly and end up dead himself in under a week. But not to tell him about his sister's death at all . . . that's just plain cruel."

She thought she could almost read Snape's thoughts: Cruelty was a small price to pay for safety. Dumbledore was a harder read, though his eyes were tempered with compassion. Had she never known such sharp loss herself, she might have been inclined to agree with Snape; however, she _had_ known such a loss, and, to her partial shame, that emotional tie kept her from fully appreciating the calculation of the matter.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "If I were to write a letter to Collum, could you see that he gets it, Meli?"

She nodded. "I'd have to deliver it by hand," she said, "but he would receive it as soon as is reasonably possible."

"Then _I_ shall notify him," the headmaster decided. "I flatter myself that I can word it in such a way as to prevent unwarranted rashness on his part." His eyes twinkled briefly. "_And_ it lets you off the hook, Meli."

"For which I am eternally grateful," she replied sincerely. "Thank you, sir."

Now Dumbledore's gaze turned to Snape. "I trust you will apprise Zarekael of the coming storm, Severus?" he said mildly.

"Yes." Snape's eyes flicked to Meli's. "Though I would appreciate any possible advance warning of the Aurors' coming."

"I doubt there will be much of one," she warned. "Still, I'll do what I can." She smiled sardonically and looked from one of them to the other. "And to answer your next question, sirs, yes, I am both able and willing to teach tomorrow."

Snape smirked. "Neither of us had any notion of asking you that, Meli." he countered mildly.

"Oh, no?"

"No."

"And why, pray tell, is that?" She arched an amused eyebrow.

Snape came dangerously close to smiling. "Tomorrow is Saturday, Meli."

Thanks to long practice, it took little effort to maintain her mask. "Already?"

_And how stupid do I feel?_ she thought lightly as she left the tower and headed for the dungeons. _Really, not very much at all,_ she decided after a moment. _It's been far too long a day; I'm too tired to care._

The next morning, Meli received from Dumbledore the letter addressed to Collum. It was just as well that she didn't have to teach; she didn't think she could have done it. As soon as breakfast was over, she excused herself and departed.

Collum smiled in greeting when she arrived, but she had no smile for him. Instead, she wordlessly handed him the letter and watched as he read it, feeling herself to be somehow the worst kind of traitor.

"Sharpie did it," he whispered incredulously, the paper slipping from his hands. "I don't believe it." He shook his head. "Even after what you told me, Meli, I thought he was a spy. I never thought he'd betray us that way."

Meli bit her lip. "Not Sharpie, Collum," she said firmly. "Pierce. Sharpie was our friend. Pierce only fooled us into thinking he _was_ Sharpie."

"He killed her, Meli," Collum said hollowly. "He did it because of You-Know-Who. He had **_no bloody problem_** killing her!" He slammed his fist down on an end table, smashing a teacup, but he seemed to feel none of it. "How could we be so fooled, Meli?" he asked, his eyes beginning to fill with angry tears which he still fought to keep at bay. "_How_?"

"I don't know," she replied mournfully. "I wish I had answers for you, Collum, but I don't."

Collum dropped into a chair, his head in his hands. "Crim was the best sister anyone could ever have," he murmured. "She was my best friend besides you."

Meli stood beside him for several minutes, but when it became clear that he had completely forgotten she was there, she departed silently, leaving him alone with his grief for a time.

****

DECEMBER 1981, THIRD YEAR

Meli was waiting patiently at the end of the line to sign up to remain at Hogwarts over Christmas holiday when Crim materialized at her side.

"And what do you think you're doing?" the Slytherin inquired.

Meli turned dead, solemn eyes on her. "I'm doing precisely what it appears I'm doing," she replied flatly.

"Oh, no, you're not."

Even that didn't draw a spark of life to the Gryffindor's eyes. "Then where do you suggest I go for Christmas?" she asked, her voice hollow.

"My house, of course," Crim informed her. "Mum and Dad wrote to say they'd be thrilled to have you." She raised a pointed eyebrow. "And you don't want to disappoint my Mum and Dad, do you?"

Meli made no reaction whatsoever. She looked measuringly at Crim for a silent moment, then at last spoke, still in a flat, solemn tone devoid of any emotion. "And are they aware of what happened to my parents?" she countered.

Crim narrowed her eyes. "Yes, as a matter of fact," she answered. "In a case like this, I tell my parents everything so they can make an informed decision."

"Then their invitation is obviously not serious."

Had Crim at all suspected that Meli had intended an insult, a nasty fight would most certainly have ensued; however, she was not Collum, and her temper had the advantage of a much longer fuse. She knew Meli well enough to understand her intent; Meli's first concern, now more than ever, was to protect others from the deadly penalties of association with her. Thus, Crim took the remark in the spirit in which it was intended and conveniently ignored the rest of it.

"Oh, they're quite serious," she replied firmly. "And just you consider this: my parents are a Slytherin and a Ravenclaw who, between them, taught Collum and me everything we know." She frowned thoughtfully. "They tried with Donald the Hufflepuff, they really did, but he's a thorough idiot when it comes to stealth and cunning—thinks no one needs them! Imagine that." She zeroed in on her goal again, and offered Meli a deadly smile. "But between you and me, it'll be a suicidal Death Eater that comes sniffing around _our_ house looking for trouble."

By now, Meli stood beside the sign-up sheet, the quill ready at-hand, but the first trace of indecision had crept into her marble expression. Crim took a deep breath, fully prepared to embark upon another speech, but she was spared by the arrival of Professor Snape.

"Good afternoon, Miss Fell, Miss Ebony," he said softly. "Will you both be remaining with us for Christmas?"

_Yes, there _is_ a God!_ Crim thought. And_ He looks with favor on conniving and helpful Slytherins._ She carefully contained her excitement beneath her trademark Skulker deadpan. "That depends entirely upon Meli, sir," she replied. "Or perhaps not."

This cryptic answer elicited confusion from Meli and a probing look from the Head of Slytherin House, who must certainly have smelled a setup. "Indeed?" the latter inquired.

"Indeed," Crim confirmed. "You see, I had intended to try and convince her to come home with me and spend Christmas with my family, but she's not sure it's a good idea." She dashed a skeptical sidewise look at the other girl. "Or so I at first thought. But now, on consideration, I think perhaps there's more Slytherin to her than most would suspect."

Snape was probably as yet unsure of her actual goal, but he knew enough to play his part masterfully. He crossed his arms and looked appraisingly at Meli. "It is possible," he allowed after a moment. "She certainly wears innocent confusion well enough to mask most dark motives."

Meli's stony face at last cracked in a nonplused half-smile. "I'm glad you believe so, sir, but I honestly don't know what either of you is talking about."

Crim gave Snape a knowing look. "She's a natural," she observed. "Perhaps she should be re-Sorted."

"Which has what to do with Christmas?" Meli asked, beginning to sound a touch exasperated.

"Oh, you needn't play _that_ way," Crim chided. "I've found you out, so it's really no good." She turned confidingly to the Potions master. "You see, Professor Snape, Meli knows quite well that I won't leave her to mope about at Christmas. So, even though it means she'll have to suffer through others' company—including that of Donald the Hufflepuff—she's contrived a way to scrape me off."

"_What?!"_

She ignored Meli's incredulous exclamation. "She's perfected a technique for getting rid of Collum, and Donald the Hufflepuff already keeps out of her way; I'm sure she's positive she can shake my parents, as well. I, however, am impossible; I freely admit it. I know that, whatever she wants, solitude is the absolute worst thing for her." By now, Meli was rolling her eyes, a clear denial of any intention to scrape Crim off, and just as clear an indication that she had no idea what Crim was playing at. Her Slytherin friend, delighted at this, continued, "And so, Professor, knowing full well that if she stays here, I will, too, she's signing up to stay at Hogwarts, fully intending to withdraw her name at the last minute and go home with Collum, leaving me to a perfectly miserable solitary Christmas here."

"I most certainly am _not,_" Meli declared through her teeth. "And if you _do_ sign up after me, I'll remove _your _name at the last minute, not mine. Solitude has nothing to do with it."

In Snape's eyes Crim read veiled approval and a possible addition of points to Slytherin House, but more importantly she saw an understanding of the situation and a concern for Meli to match hers. "In that event," he said dryly, "I have no doubt that Mis Fell would find a way to remain anyway."

"She'd be in a great deal of trouble for it," Meli grumbled.

Snape nodded sagely. "But only if no teacher stepped in to intercede in her behalf," he pointed out.

And then Meli did something of which Crim would never have thought her capable: she _glared_ at a teacher. "So that's the way of it then," she seethed. "Semi-Slytherin that I am, I can't contend with two full Slytherins when it comes to blackmail."

"My dear Meli, you couldn't contend with us anyway," Crim told her with a grin. "The fact that we're both Slytherins merely determined our means of flummoxing you. Had we both been Ravenclaws, we'd have logicked you to death. Had we been Gryffindors, I'm sure we'd have done something brazen and stupid, yet splendidly successful. Had we been—never mind." She shuddered. "That's something I don't even want to theorize about; it's far too horrifying to comprehend."

Snape bestowed a mild smirk on her, then turned to Meli. "And if solitude is not your motivation, you should have no objection to Miss Fell remaining here with you," he pointed out.

Meli looked thoroughly disgusted. "With her badgering me the whole time about not letting her go home and not going myself?" she said archly. "No, thanks."

Now it was Crim's turn to look disgusted, although in reality she could have cheered. "I had no idea my techniques were so obvious," she grumbled.

"Only to an honorary Slytherin like Miss Ebony," Snape assured her wryly. "But now that the difficulty seems to be resolved, I'll leave the two of you to work out details. Happy Christmas."

Both girls maintained cordial smiles until Snape was out of earshot. Then Meli's countenance turned sour and she looked balefully at her best friend. "Crimson Fell, I'm going to kill you."

Crim shrugged. "You can, if you like," she replied airily. "But keep in mind that ghosts don't need passwords to get into Gryffindor Tower. I'll torment you until you give in."

Meli stared at her, then slowly shook her head and sighed. "Someday, somehow, I'm going to win an argument with you."

"Put it on your Christmas list," Crim suggested helpfully. "That'll save me the trouble of buying and wrapping something for you."

Meli moaned and rested her forehead on the stone wall in front of her.

"Happy Christmas, Meli," Crim said cheerily. "You know you can't live without me."


	18. Dirk Pierced

****

Chapter 18: Dirk Pierced

****

PRESENT: EARLY DECEMBER

Harry's scar had been burning all day, giving him a low-level headache that had blossomed to a full-out migraine by the end of his final class. He could barely move, much less walk a straight line without a hand on the wall. Ron and Hermione helped him back to Gryffindor Tower, and it did not require much effort to convince him to lay down.

He'd had no intention of falling asleep, but somehow it happened anyway. The pain followed him into the darkness of sleep . . . and then, as a picture resolved in his mind, it exploded into an excruciating agony, compared with which a migraine was nothing.

The scene he now saw was outdoors in a darkened clearing or field covered in snow. There were people everywhere—over a hundred people—all cloaked and masked; this was a gathering of Death Eaters.

Voldemort stood a little apart from the hoi polloi, and near him stood an aloof group that probably comprised his inner circle. The rest of the Death Eaters milled around, their demeanors indicating nervousness and uncertainty.

"Dirk Pierce," Voldemort called out, his voice immediately silencing all present. The lower-level Death Eaters parted to make way for one of their number, who all but swaggered forward.

Harry watched, trepidant, as Voldemort looked evaluatively at Pierce, as if assessing the best and most painful way to kill him. Pierce's posture did not change, and, masked as he was, Harry couldn't tell if the Dark Lord's displeasure was at all felt by the Death Eater in question.

"Tell me about Crimson Fell," Voldemort ordered silkily.

_The one in the _Daily Prophet_,_ Harry thought. _She's the one they just found dead—_

His reflections were cut short by Pierce's answer. To judge by the Death Eater's tone, he was completely unaware that he treaded on thin ice; indeed, he was smug, even arrogant, as he gave his reply.

"Phamelia Marvolo's bane was to see the suffering of those close to her," he sniffed. "Crimson Fell was one of her best friends at Hogwarts. Whose death could hurt her more?"

To judge by the look on Voldemort's face, Pierce had so far not revealed anything earth-shatteringly new. It seemed that this particular Death Eater very much liked hearing himself talk, and that Voldemort was willing to let him—doling out just enough rope for Pierce to hang himself. Had Pierce been cowering, Harry might have pitied him; as it was, though, he was simply horrified at the other's blind stupidity.

Pierce continued: "I spent seven months tracking her down; she hid herself quite well. I murdered her as per your orders, Master."

This revelation also surprised no one, least of all Harry, who had needed little help to piece together the clues. Voldemort, too, was well aware of the facts, and probably of a few more besides, for anger, not approval, flashed through his deadly eyes.

"I understand that you also carved a Dark Mark in her arm," he stated dangerously.

Pierce at last understood, or began to, the nature of his predicament. He gulped, then replied more or less steadily, "Yes, Master."

Voldemort continued silkily. "Did you not carve _your_ initials into her arm, as well?"

Harry watched with a growing trepidation as Pierce started shaking and paled to a shade lighter than the snow. The Death Eater must reply, however, so he stammered painfully, "Y-yes-s, s-sir."

Voldemort caught a hold of Pierce's chin and forced his head up, making it impossible for him _not_ to look the Dark Lord full in the face. "Phamelia is supposed to think of _me_ and rue the day she betrayed _me_ whenever her friends die," he hissed poisonously. "You made this personal, Dirk Pierce, for now she will think of you instead of me. _I_ am your master; you used _my_ Mark for your petty revenge. That displeases me greatly."

Now Harry did feel a slight stirring of pity for Pierce. Whoever Phamelia Marvolo might be, and whatever the significance of her bane and of Pierce's fouling it up, it surely didn't warrant the painful and nasty death Voldemort doubtless had in store for him.

Pierce's thoughts had undoubtedly taken a similar course. His tone turned plaintive. "Master—"

"**_SILENCE!_**" Voldemort roared. He took a step backward, then lowered his voice. "Since Phamelia would no doubt take great joy in hearing you scream, _I_ will not curse you."

Pierce, having missed the implicit message entirely, slumped in relief.

_Bloody fool!_ Harry thought, and sure enough, Voldemort turned to the other assembled Death Eaters with a derisive smile.

"Sorenson, Avery, McNair," he called. "_You_ will do the honors."

Pierce started shaking again, quite violently as three Death Eaters stepped forward. They paused a moment, toying with him, then aimed their wands and one by one initiated the Cruciatus. Their curses reinforced one another, more than tripling the torture. This continued for a seeming eternity before Voldemort called a halt, at which point they lowered their wands, pulled Pierce back into a kneeling position, then returned to their places.

Harry's stomach roiled, and he wondered sickly what more Voldemort had in store for the wayward Death Eater.

The answer was not long in coming. The Dark Lord regarded Pierce through slitted eyes, then said coolly, "You seem so fond of carving, Pierce. I believe you should have one of your very own as a reminder."

_Wake up, wake up, wake up!_ Harry thought desperately, but the dreamscape clung to him and would not release him. He could not go away, nor could he look away; he was forced to watch it play out, down to the last bloody detail.

Voldemort turned abruptly to look at one of the Death Eaters, who stood a head taller than the others present. "Zarekael!"

Harry's stomach stopped roiling as the bottom of it dropped out like an express lift. The Death Eater's posture, the grace with which he stepped forward, the intonation and accent with which he said, "Yes, milord"—all belonged to the Potions apprentice. Harry was mortified and felt his hope bleeding slowly away.

"You have a mark on your left collar bone," Voldemort stated. "What is it?"

"My House symbol, milord," Zarekael replied, quite calmly.

"I wish to see it."

Zarekael bowed. "As you wish." Without the least bit of hesitation, he shed his robe and handed it to another Death Eater, then he similarly shed and handed over his black frock-coat. This revealed a white linen shirt, the back of which was spotted with crimson; he removed it, and Harry caught his breath. Zarekael's back was covered in horrific wounds like whip-lashes; they were healing, but the motions involved in removing his outer garments, and perhaps a rubbing from the straps of a knife harness he wore on his torso, had broken open the scabs, leaving him to bleed anew. An uneasy rustling rippled through the Death Eaters' ranks at the sight, and Harry's view of Zarekael as a traitor was temporarily put on hold in a wave of pained sympathy. The students had been told that the apprentice had been badly hurt in a brewing accident, but this was evidence of deliberately inflicted punishment.

Zarekael, apparently oblivious to his fellows' reaction, turned and approached Voldemort with a bowed head. By the time he knelt before the Dark Lord, his unquestioning humility had dissolved through Harry's momentary pity.

Voldemort regarded the kneeling Death Eater for a moment, then arched an eyebrow. "Zarekael," he said, a note of curiosity in his voice, "I would have thought that these wounds would have been healed."

Zarekael looked up sharply in surprise. "You did not give me permission to do so, milord," he replied, evidently puzzled. Seeing that Voldemort was likewise confused, he wend on. "Severus taught me that if you saw fit to punish me, then I must bear the pain as the lesson and reminder they were intended to be, unless you grant me leave to heal myself fully." He once more lowered his head, this time in shame. "I failed you, milord, and you specifically said that these were to remind me of my shame and to warn me of the perils of failure. If I misinterpreted your intent, forgive me please."

Far from being offended, Voldemort preened in the wake of this explanation. He turned an approving eye on the Death Eater who held Zarekael's robe—Snape, Harry soon surmised. The Potions master drew himself up proudly, demonstrating his own approval of his son.

_And what did Snape do to train Zarekael that way?_ Harry wondered, feeling ill.

With an affirming nod to the father, Voldemort returned his attention to the son. He ran his hand through Zarekael's hair and down to his chin, which he then lifted. He looked Zarekael fully in the eye, as interested in the possible presence of deception as Harry himself was. The inhuman blue eyes held nothing of the kind, though; there was only unresisting surrender.

_He really is loyal,_ Harry thought miserably. _He seemed such a decent fellow, if a bit creepy, but he's really and truly loyal to Voldemort._

The Dark Lord, coming to the same conclusion, smiled reassuringly—a chilling sight, to be sure. "You did not misinterpret me, my loyal young servant," he said in a tone that bordered on fatherly. "Quite the contrary. Stand up so that I may see this mark more clearly."

Zarekael stood obediently, not even flinching when Voldemort traced the scar on his collar bone. It was a depiction of a bird of prey, Harry saw—the very bird, in fact, that had been emblazoned on the armor that Snape and Zarekael had worn at Halloween.

"What _is_ this creature, Zarekael?" Voldemort asked.

"I'm afraid it does not exist on this plane, milord," he replied apologetically. "It is a particularly vicious bird of prey, known for its slyness and cunning, as well as its unusual intelligence. The closest comparison would be a bird with the speed of a falcon, the coloring of a raven, and the size of an eagle."

The Dark Lord seemed slightly amused. "So these are the qualities exemplified by your House?"

"Yes, milord."

Voldemort lowered his hand. "Then it is no wonder you're a Slytherin," he remarked, to appreciative laughter from the Death Eaters.

"I suppose not," Zarekael rejoined dryly.

Voldemort nodded his approbation, then stepped around Zarekael to look again at Dirk Pierce, whose plight Harry had momentarily forgotten. Pierce had stopped blubbering to stare at Zarekael's back, first in awe and now in abject terror. If that had been done to one so favored, what _must_ be in store for him?

The Dark Lord watched him stew for a moment, then smiled dangerously. "Severus, Lucius, Zarekael, come here."

Zarekael turned and was joined immediately by two others from the inner circle.

Voldemort drew and waved his wand. "_Tabula rasa,_" he said, then started to sketch lazily, with his wand, in thin air. The track of his wand remained, though, leaving the glowing green outline of a basilisk rearing itself above a cowering adder. He then turned back to the summoned threesome. "I want you three to carve this into Mr. Pierce's chest." He looked sidewise at Zarekael's harness. "I'm sure Zarekael would _gladly_ lend you some knives."

"You honor us, Master," Lucius Malfoy said obsequiously. At Voldemort's nod, he looked expectantly at Zarekael, who drew two very long, very wicked knives, handing one each to Malfoy and to Snape. The trio looked ponderingly at the design, then Malfoy turned to the others. "You two are better at the fine, detailed work," he sniffed haughtily, "so I believe it best if I start by carving the general outline, and you may fill in the details."

Zarekael looked to Snape, who silkily replied, "That is acceptable." He cast an eye at Pierce, who was whimpering again, then his voice hardened. "Enough chatter."

Without a word, Zarekael stooped and hauled Pierce roughly to his feet. He slipped his own arms between Pierce's arms and body, then pulled them backward, effectively bracing Pierce's arms behind his back. Then he placed his hands against the back of Pierce's head, pushing downward to force the unfortunate man to watch Malfoy's handiwork. Pierce did not take it quietly, but his violent squirming and inarticulate terrified utterances were to no avail as Malfoy cut away his shirt.

Zarekael apparently tired of the noise, however, for he abruptly straightened, lifting Pierce completely off of the ground, thereby forcing the pitiful man's full weight onto his already uncomfortable arms. "Stop struggling," the Potions apprentice snarled. "This is a lesson; _learn_ from it." He returned Pierce's feet to the ground, then looked apologetically to the others. "Forgive the interruption if you would, Malfoy."

Malfoy shrugged and flippantly waved his knife. "No trouble," he assured him, then set to work, using long, slow strokes to create an outline on Pierce's chest.

Pierce never made even a token effort to remain either silent or still as the blood flowed freely to streak his body and stain the snow. He had no pity from any present; his torturers were contemptuous, the Death Eaters, amused. Their jeers grew even louder when he stained the snow yellow and started begging for mercy.

Malfoy finished his task with a vicious dig from his blade. "You truly _are_ pathetic," he muttered, then backed away to catch Snape's eye. "All right, Severus, I believe it's your turn."

Harry was now visited by a hopeful, though irrational, thought: _Maybe Snape'll find a way to get him out of this—or at least he'll put him out of his misery._

Snape raised his eyebrows expectantly at Malfoy, who did not at first move. "It _would_ be helpful if you would relieve Zarekael of his burden," he said pointedly.

With a disdainful look at Pierce, Malfoy handed over his blade to Snape, then moved to switch places with Zarekael. The Potions apprentice dropped Pierce, stepped over his prone form, then pulled him back up again so that Malfoy could restrain him once more. When he stepped back from Pierce, his entire chest and abdomen were smeared with blood, a development that seemed not to bother him at all.

"You first, Father," he said calmly, accepting his blade from Snape.

Snape stepped forward and forced Pierce's head upward so that the victim had to look his tormentor in the eye.

"Please," Pierce begged hoarsely. "Stop."

"It was so much easier with three others bearing the consequences with you, wasn't it?" his former teacher taunted. "Whatever happened to your belief that no one can make you miserable unless you permit it?" His tone turned contemptuous, dashing the last of Harry's irrational hopes. "You never could survive on your own, you weak pathetic man. Now _stop sniveling_!"

He and Zarekael then, without another word, picked up the bloody task Malfoy had begun. Neither seemed in the least bothered by his work—_And why should they be?_ Harry reflected bitterly. Zarekael obviously had no conscience, and Snape, whatever his loyalties, evidently had a nasty history with Pierce. It was only logical, however wrong, that both should be pleased with the task at hand.

When the work was at last finished, father and son stepped away, leaving Malfoy to drop Pierce to the ground one final time. The disgraced Death Eater curled up in the fetal position, shivering in the snow and whimpering in pain.

This apparently annoyed Zarekael. He stalked over to Pierce, grabbed him by the back of the neck, and dragged him over to Voldemort, at whose feet he roughly dropped him. "He has been merciful," the apprentice hissed. "Show your gratitude, you swine." When Pierce made no move to do anything of the kind, Zarekael kicked him viciously in the side.

Voldemort lay a restraining hand on Zarekael's arm; the Death Eater went suddenly very still. "Forgive me, milord," he said softly. "I have overstepped."

_You overstepped long ago, you sick freak,_ Harry thought coldly.

Voldemort was far more understanding. "I will overlook it this once," he replied magnanimously, then turned venomous eyes on Pierce. "Carry my new Mark, Pierce, as a reminder: Don't _ever_ raise yourself above me again."

Now the Dark Lord looked at the rest of his followers. "Let tonight be a lesson to all of you, as well," he said dangerously. "All except Malfoy, Snape, and Zarekael, leave me now."

There was a series of pops as the Death Eaters obeyed and disapparated. When Voldemort spoke again, his voice was beginning to fade, and it seemed to Harry that the clearing was darkening around him.

"Lucius," the Dark Lord began, "I understand that you have found another most interesting 

target . . ."

His voice faded to a murmur, then disappeared entirely as the scene melted away and Harry awoke. He did not notice that the pain in his scar was fading; he was distracted by any number of other, more important vexations. Zarekael's loyalty to Voldemort, his obvious cruelty and sadism, Snape's disregard for Pierce, Malfoy's new target—all crashed around in his mind until he didn't know what to make of any of it, except to say that none of it was good.

He noticed suddenly that he was actually out of his bed and standing beside it facing the door. Ron sat up in his own bed and stared at him in alarm.

"What is it, Harry?" he whispered, mindful of their still-sleeping roommates.

"I have to go see Dumbledore now," Harry replied tersely, pulling a jumper on over his pajamas. He started to the door, followed soon after by Ron, who grabbed a jumper to put on en route.

"What happened?" Ron asked quietly, once they were past the Fat Lady. "Another dream?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah," he answered. "And it's really not good." He rubbed at his scar, which still hurt a bit. "Not that it's ever good," he added ruefully.

They went the rest of the way in silence, Harry mulling over what he'd seen and Ron making sure that Harry got to his destination in more or less one piece. On arriving at the statue guarding the entrance, Ron stayed long enough for the two of them to figure out the password ("Fizzing Whizbee"), then excused himself, knowing he'd be unwanted and that, in any case, he'd learn soon enough what Dumbledore said.

Harry proceeded up to the headmaster's office and was not at all surprised to find Dumbledore there; he privately doubted that the headmaster ever slept.

Dumbledore seemed equally unsurprised that Harry had come. He invited the boy in, offered him a biscuit, and poured out a cup of tea, all as though Harry's coming was by invitation. Only when Harry was seated, with the tea turning cold on the desk in front of him and the biscuit growing soft in his clammy palm, did Dumbledore raise inquisitive eyebrows. "And what brings you here tonight, Harry?" he asked.

"I had another dream," Harry told him. "Or vision or . . . whatever they are." He trailed off, not sure exactly how to go on. He came as the bearer of unpleasant tidings . . . but there were also a number of questions to which he wanted answers. Which were best given first, the tidings or the questions?

Dumbledore, fortunately, was able to navigate any muddle by asking questions of his own. "Where was Voldemort?" he inquired, almost gently.

"He was outside," Harry replied. "In a forest clearing. There was snow on the ground and trees behind him."

"Who else was there?"

"A lot of Death Eaters—not just the high-ranking ones. One was named Dirk Pierce. And Lucius Malfoy and . . ." He swallowed. "Sn—_Professor_ Snape and Professor . . . Zarekael."

The headmaster did not appear surprised at any of this. Before he could ask another leading question, though, Harry added, "He's loyal, Professor. Zarekael is loyal to Voldemort. The way he was acting—" He squeezed his eyes shut. "How could he _not_ be loyal?" he finished, speaking more to himself than to the headmaster.

Dumbledore paused, but when he spoke again, there was no trace of dismay in his voice. "What did Voldemort do?" he inquired calmly.

Harry looked up. "He called Pierce forward and asked him to tell about someone named Crimson Fell," he answered.

That, at least, sparked Dumbledore's interest, though the flicker in his eye was quickly buried. "What did Pierce say?"

Harry briefly recounted the conversation, up to the point just before Voldemort had called Zarekael forward.

His abrupt halt was not lost on Dumbledore. "What happened next?" he prompted, not unkindly.

Harry swallowed. "He—he called Zarekael," he replied. "And asked about a scar on his collar bone. Zarekael took off his shirt and—" He swallowed hard. "His back was covered in barely-healed lashes. I think Voldemort's the one who whipped him because he was only surprised that they weren't healed yet."

"And," Dumbledore said, leaning forward a bit, "how did Professor Zarekael explain them?"

Harry felt sick. "He said Professor Snape taught him that he wasn't to heal anything Voldemort gave him as a punishment, unless Voldemort gave him permission to heal it," he answered.

"I see." Dumbledore smiled encouragingly, and Harry wondered suddenly what such an expression cost him. It could not possibly be easy to smile in the face of such news, but he managed it anyway, for Harry's benefit. "What happened next?"

Harry took a deep breath, then carefully described Voldemort's design and the joyous manner in which Snape, Zarekael, and Malfoy had engraved it into Pierce's chest. He capped off the whole with Zarekael's vicious manhandling of the wayward Death Eater and Voldemort's hint of an upcoming mission of some sort.

He at last fell silent, allowing Dumbledore a chance to ponder briefly before he launched into his questions. His pause lasted perhaps a full minute, though, and then the questions poured forth.

"How could you know Snape was a Death Eater and not Zarekael?" he began. "And how could someone who seems so decent turn out to be a complete sadist? If Snape's on our side, how come he didn't seem to mind punishing Pierce?" He hesitated, then set his jaw and let the other shoe drop. "And how, exactly, did Snape train Zarekael to take severe punishments that way?"

Dumbledore held up a restraining hand. "First of all, Harry," he said firmly, "except when Voldemort forced him to do it—and that has only been once—Professor Snape never raised a hand against his son. You may put your fears to rest on that count.

"Secondly, I am well aware that Professor Zarekael is a Death Eater, _but_," he added, with a silencing look to Harry, "I am likewise aware that he is not in the least loyal to Voldemort, whatever appearances he may give."

Harry shook his head. "That was more than just an appearance," he stated firmly. "He enjoyed what he was doing."

"Yes, Harry," Dumbledore replied. "As far as Voldemort is concerned, he did." He raised his eyebrows. "But a spy who does not wish to be caught will never permit his true feelings to be known."

"Which I suppose explains Snape?" Harry said skeptically.

"_Professor_ Snape, Harry," Dumbledore chided mildly. "And yes, it partially explains his behavior, though not entirely. Crimson Fell, you see, was one of his students." He looked knowingly at Harry. "As you may know, teachers sometimes befriend their pupils; Miss Fell was one such pupil for Professor Snape. Her death impacted him much the way your death would impact Professor Lupin, for example. So you see, it is entirely possible, and quite understandable, though not at all right, that Professor Snape's feelings in the matter did influence his behavior toward Pierce tonight."

That was certainly food for thought, and it gave Harry pause, but only until his mind returned to Zarekael. "I still don't trust Zare—_Professor_ Zarekael," he said stubbornly. "He was just too perfect to be entirely acting."

Dumbledore looked thoughtfully at him. "You mentioned seeing the wounds on his back," he remarked quietly.

Harry nodded.

"He's had those for nearly a month," the headmaster continued. "He received them the night after Voldemort tried and failed to kidnap you. You woke up before it happened, but he was beaten, flogged, and put under the Cruciatus numerous times that night." He raised his eyebrows. "He and Professor Snape were punished because they intentionally bungled the kidnapping attempt in order to keep you safe. Professor Zarekael didn't have to fail; if he were loyal to Voldemort, he would _not_ have failed. Instead, though, he risked his life, and indeed almost died, to keep you safe."

Harry swallowed again. Put that way, it made sense . . . but if that were so, Zarekael was a disturbingly good actor. "He did that . . . for me?" he asked. "He was in the hospital wing for a fortnight—he could have died?"

Rather than answer directly, Dumbledore offered a compassionate smile. "I have no doubt as to where Professor Zarekael's loyalties lie," he quietly declared.

Even had Harry been so inclined, he could not have kept his nightmare or his talk with Dumbledore to himself; there was no way he could keep them from Ron and Hermione. As soon as an opportunity presented itself, he took them aside and told them the entire story.

"I know who Crimson Fell is," Hermione said grimly. "Her murder was all over yesterday's _Daily Prophet_." She shook her head in disgust. "No one knew any possible motive—who's Phamelia Marvolo?"

"The motive, apparently," Ron grumbled. "Dumbledore never said anything about her?"

Harry grimaced. "I forgot to ask," he confessed.

"Well, do you think she's any relation to Tom Marvolo Riddle?"

Harry swallowed. "That's what I was thinking," he replied. "Crimson Fell went to school with her. Hermione, did the paper say how old she was? I never got past the first paragraph."

"Twenty-seven," Hermione answered. "I remember noticing she's the same age as Ebony."

"Ebony," Ron repeated. "Well, now that we know that both Snape and Zarekael are Death Eaters, are there any more theories on her seizures?" 

Harry shook his head. "I can't honestly believe he's still loyal to Voldemort," he said reluctantly. "I'm not ever sure about Zarekael. With Snape's past, though, Dumbledore would be keeping an extra-close watch on him." He thought on it, but firmly shook his head again. "No, he's taken punishment for Dumbledore—he's a spy. He . . . and Zarekael," he added hesitantly, "kept me from being kidnapped last month. If they were loyal, they wouldn't have."

"For not being loyal, though, Zarekael sure is a brutal git," Ron commented darkly. "Set Snape aside for a minute—I suppose he's capable of having friends and being upset when they die. But did Zarekael even know Crimson Fell?"

Hermione shook her head. "He's too young to have known her as a student," she replied. "And he's been at Hogwarts ever since he came here. Unless they ran into each other on Diagon Alley, they probably never even met."

"So what's his stake in it, then?" Ron asked. "He didn't know her, she wasn't his friend—"

"But Snape is," Harry realized. Ron and Hermione stared at him, but he persisted. "Think about it. Snape's his father, but they get on better than a father and son—they're friends. And if one of you had a friend killed, even if I'd never met him, I'd have a stake in it because he's your friend, and you're mine."

"That . . . makes sense," Hermione conceded. "But would it make a sadist of you?"

Harry nodded slowly as he finally understood something Dumbledore had said. "With Voldemort watching?" he countered. "Who knows what I'd do?"

"That doesn't make it anymore comforting," Ron said. "The fact remains that we thought Zarekael was a decent chap, and he's got a dark side that's really pretty disturbing."

To that Harry had no defense, nor did he feel terribly inclined to create one. Silence reigned for a moment, ending with Hermione clearing her throat.

"Well, if you want to do some research on Phamelia Marvolo," she said, "we'll have plenty of time to do it over Christmas holiday."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Oh, and where do you suggest we start on _that_?" he asked.

"In the library," she replied acidly. "In the Hogwarts yearbook archives."

Harry made no effort to curb his staring during Potions. He was torn over what Dumbledore had said the evening before, and it seemed that Zarekael was determined not to help resolve the confusion. The Potions apprentice was as calm and polite as always, challenging what Harry had seen without so much as a spoken word, but at the same time, he was well aware of Harry's surveillance and made no effort to make a lie of what Harry had seen. Indeed, Zarekael seemed wary, more than anything—and, most condemning of all, he gave no sign of penitence.

At last the bell rang.

"Wait for me in the corridor," Harry said under his breath. "I want to talk to him."

Ron and Hermione nodded, then left without a word. Once the classroom had emptied, Harry went forward to the front of the room, where Zarekael stood waiting for him. His intention was obviously known, for the apprentice, with a motion of his hand, closed the door behind the last of Harry's classmates. As if to deny that knowledge, however, he raised unconcerned eyebrows. "A question, Mr. Potter?" he said mildly.

"No, sir," Harry replied. "I just . . . I wanted to say think you for saving my life. Dumbledore told 

me—" 

"It wasn't me," Zarekael interrupted quietly. He looked genuinely surprised at Harry's words, and Harry couldn't really fault him; he wasn't exactly famous for being grateful to Death Eaters. "It was Severus' task to see that it came off without a hitch; it was he who kept you safe."

His humility and civil address took Harry off-guard. Snape (he thought) would have taken credit and summarily thrown him out of the room for broaching a taboo subject. At the very least Zarekael should have bristled at Harry's implication that he had witnessed the events of the previous evening . . . but there was no denial, no self-protective anger, no reaction more remarkable than surprise and polite correction.

Harry's own surprise must have shown, for Zarekael sighed. "What?"

He was not thinking clearly, so he should probably have kept quiet, but instead he blurted exactly what was in his mind: "It's just—I didn't expect—You're acting almost like the decent man I thought you were."

That was, of course, exactly the wrong thing to say. Even before Harry shut his mouth, his eyes were wide with horror at what he'd said and in anticipation of what must surely be a violent reaction from the Potions apprentice.

Zarekael closed his eyes—a reaction that was not at all comforting. Harry had heard that the apprentice sometimes had either physical or magical rages, which always started with his eyes changing color from blue to green. He dreaded a reopening of those eyes and the violence it would hail.

The eyes opened blue, but Harry was already babbling in a vain attempt to explain away his hasty words. "I'm sorry, that came out wrong. That's not how I meant it—not what I meant to say, I mean—"

"Stop." Zarekael gave the command in a weary voice.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it," Harry finished lamely.

"Never apologize for the truth, Mr. Potter," Zarekael told him. He sighed and looked very old. "Please, just go."

Harry just went. Ron and Hermione met him in the corridor, but he was at a loss for what to tell them. He wasn't sure he'd been supposed to see that aspect of Zarekael, and he was certain that what he'd seen wasn't meant to be shared. At last, in reply to their pressing inquiries, he said, "I just wanted to thank him for what he did last month."

Ron gulped. "How'd he take it?"

"He was . . . surprised," Harry replied truthfully, then let the subject drop.

Two days after identifying Crim, Meli's temper had cooled, giving way to a dull ache that she carried always with her but could soon adjust to—she hoped. She even found herself somewhat regretting a few of the words she had spoken to Pierce on Diagon Alley, though she hadn't the supernatural grace that would allow her to forgive him without further reflection and grappling.

Part of that grappling required her to test her own reaction to a description of Pierce's punishment. She strongly suspected that she would feel a swell of satisfaction at the news . . . but there was no way to know for certain until she heard it. A part of her hoped that she would instead feel revolted.

When she judged by Snape and Zarekael's demeanors that _something_ had been done (Snape was slightly less uptight, and Zarekael looked, to the trained eye, almost smug), she took aside the former and made a discreet inquiry.

The question obviously did not surprise Snape. His mouth quirked sardonically, and he crossed his arms. "The Dark Lord, as you doubtless predicted, was not amused," he replied. "He thought that the punishment should fit the crime . . . so Pierce is now nursing an impressive wound."

Meli's eyes widened. "He _carved_ him?"

"Pierce was carved," Snape allowed. "The Dark Lord specified the design, and others carried it out."

"What design?" she asked. "Where?"

"It's a detailed rendering of a basilisk towering over a cowering adder," he replied, a touch of disdain creeping into his tone. "And it covers his chest and part of his torso."

"Who did it, if not Voldemort himself?"

Snape cleared his throat. "Lucius Malfoy, Zarekael . . . and me," he answered.

She ended the conversation shortly thereafter and locked herself in her office to think.

Her sense of justice did not feel satisfied, nor was its appetite whetted. Indeed, had her sense of justice possessed a stomach, that organ would be roiling as if seasick. Justice and vengeance, it would seem, were not one and the same.

_Stupid child,_ her grandfather's voice whispered in her mind. _Of course they're different. Justice is the invention of those who foolishly believe that there is any authority higher than themselves. Vengeance is the right of those who recognize the truth that _they_ are the highest authorities of right and wrong. If it benefits you, it is right; if it harms or insults you, it is wrong and must be avenged._

"There _is_ an ultimate Authority, old man," Meli whispered viciously. "Higher than me, and higher than you. Your riddles no longer confound me."

It was, in fact, belief in an ultimate Authority that had allowed her to keep her sanity after falling from grace. Had she believed for even a moment that there was no Sovereign Intelligence that directed the course of her life (miserable as it sometimes seemed)—that there was, therefore, no purpose at all for her suffering—she would have killed herself long ago.

Just as she could not give up her belief in a Sovereign God, she could not long bear a grudge against anyone save herself without consciously expending the effort to do so; it was simply not in her nature. Now that the initial rage of her grief had dissipated somewhat, she was forced to face the question of what to do about Dirk Pierce.

Sharpie was dead—as dead as was the man who had once been her grandfather. Both had faded away, supplanted by the power-hungry self-idolaters that they now were.

_Grandfather didn't kill Crim,_ she reminded herself, but she cut that argument short with another: _He killed my parents, and he abandoned me to Voldemort's wrath._

She had never known her birth parents. At her request, Dumbledore had told her what little he knew of them and the ways in which they had died. Meli's grandfather, it appeared, had personally murdered his own teenage daughter and the lower-level Death Eater he had allowed to rape her. His offenses were far worse than Pierce's . . . and yet she had, as much as it was really possible, forgiven him.

His treatment of her parents was abstract, though; since the offense was only hazily perceived, it was easily forgiven. Far more real to her were the twisted training he had attempted to ingrain in her that even now made sugar a nauseating substance, the abuses she had suffered from him when she had publicly rejected her upbringing, , and his final rejection of her that had allowed Voldemort to punish her so severely that she still bore the marks of his curse to this day.

For those offenses, those abuses, those scars on her heart and soul, she had forgiven her grandfather. For the curse and the bane, she had even forgiven Voldemort.

Could she forgive Pierce his betrayal?

Forgiveness was not forgetfulness or naïveté; it would not require her to trust or befriend him again . . . and yet there was still the desire for justice.

_No,_ she thought firmly. _If being slowly carved by three Death Eaters, and bearing the pain of healing and then the permanent scars, isn't justice enough, nothing, not even his death, ever will be._

She would treat Pierce as she treated every enemy: only when the alternative was allowing herself or someone under her protection to be killed would she herself kill him. After his recent shenanigans, though, she highly doubted that Voldemort would allow Pierce the honor of coming anywhere near Harry Potter, and Pierce was far too intelligent to make a move against Snape or Zarekael, even if he _did_ suspect them of being spies.

Refusing to forgive did no harm to Pierce, and it did Meli the harm of keeping her from moving on. It would be difficult enough to adjust to Crim's being really gone, without coupling remembrances of her with a hatred for Pierce. She had to let it go, or she would lose her focus and herself.


	19. Christmas Day

****

Chapter 19: Christmas Day

Christmas dinner was, as always, a sumptuous affair, every course a particular delight. It was probably Harry's favorite meal of the year, and not just on account of the food; Christmas Day was the time when most of the teachers lightened up and acted like real people.

The notable exceptions, as always, were Snape and Zarekael, and this year Ebony had joined them. She was still cheerier than the other two, but compared with McGonagall and Dumbledore, for example, she was positively somber. Still, Harry reckoned, somber was better than hostile, and Snape, at least, looked _very_ hostile.

Just before dessert, Ebony smiled tightly and handed Dumbledore a small present wrapped in muted blue paper. The headmaster's smile was a bit happier than hers was as he accepted it, possibly, Harry thought, because it was too small, soft, and lightweight to be another book. He well remembered Dumbledore's lament that all he ever received for Christmas was books.

"A little something I stumbled over last time I was on Diagon Alley," Ebony said quietly. "It seemed somehow perfect for you, sir."

Dumbledore eyed her searchingly for a moment, then, with an anticipatory smile, he slowly unwrapped the gift. His smile widened to a grin of pure joy as the paper fell away, and he lifted up the present for all to see.

**_"TOE SOCKS!!!!"_** he proclaimed triumphantly, and that, indeed, was what he held: a pair of wool toe socks, striped in garish, clashing jewel tones that hurt the eyes to look at. Each toe was knitted from a different color, and across the tops of the socks, Harry read the name "Dumbledore", knitted (magically and by special order, no doubt) with a different color to each letter.

Snape and Zarekael looked genuinely amused, though neither smiled, and most of the other teachers laughed out loud. Dumbledore, for his part, seemed near tears as he thanked the startled Ebony over and over again.

"This is the most beautiful present I've had in countless years!" he sniffled, sounding rather like Hagrid after a few barrels of beer.

Ebony was taken aback. "I'm glad you like them, sir," she replied dryly. "Not to mention relieved that you don't already have a pair. You're very challenging to shop for, you know."

Dumbledore beamed at her through now-flowing tears. "Wool socks of _any_ kind will _always_ be welcome, Meli."

"I'll make a note of it."

"Even on a day off, she's uptight!" Ron whispered to Harry and Hermione. "'I'll make a note of it.' What kind of answer is that?"

Harry, meanwhile, was still observing Dumbledore, who had pushed back his chair and was now trading his shoes and socks for the new pair of toe socks he still held lovingly in his hands. When Dumbledore had told Harry four years earlier that he saw himself in the Mirror of Erised holding a pair of wool socks, Harry had written it off as a joking answer to a very personal question. Confronted with this display, however, he could not help but wonder if Dumbledore hadn't actually been telling the truth after all.

But then, having seen more of Dumbledore since that conversation, Harry realized that his original conclusion had probably been unfair and hasty.

His change complete, Dumbledore stood, hiked his robes to his knees, and skipped energetically around the table, whistling "The Irish Washerwoman" as loudly as he could, which display earned him a hearty round of applause from Fred and George Weasley.

It had been fitting and appropriate for Dumbledore to receive his gift in front of everyone, where he could show it off and be joined by others—though less enthusiastically—in his exultation. Zarekael and Snape, however, were fare more private and, whether alone or in a crowd, far less likely to traipse joyfully about displaying their gifts. A less public presentation would be far more appreciated by both, and for this Meli was thankful; Dumbledore's display, while it confirmed that she had chosen a good gift, had made her uncomfortable. Still, in the spirit of the day—and because she only had to witness it once—she was willing to accommodate.

For Snape and Zarekael's benefit, she decided on one-on-one presentations. After Christmas dinner, therefore, she stopped at her rooms long enough to pick up their gifts, and, putting Snape's in her pocket, she went to Zarekael's quarters.

He answered the door almost immediately and just as quickly invited her in.

_A marked contrast with the last time I came,_ she thought, smiling.

"Will you take a seat?" Zarekael asked.

Meli nodded, then sat in the chair nearest the door. She waited until Zarekael had seated himself facing her, then said, "I brought by your Christmas present."

The present in question was rather large—a foot square and three or more inches thick—and a bit floppy. She had wrapped it neatly in the same muted blue paper she had used for Dumbledore's gift.

Zarekael raised his eyebrows fractionally as he accepted it from her hands. He seemed to handle it gingerly, carefully removing the paper and turning over in his hands the square of green wool it gave way to reveal. This unfolded proved to be a hooded cloak large enough to accommodate even Zarekael's frame, with a round, silver clasp at the throat. The dealer at Diagon Alley had given Meli some guff about the requirements of her order, but, once made to see reason (she could be quite convincing when necessity demanded it), he had done beautiful work.

"Thank you," Zarekael said. His eye, she saw, rested on the clasp.

The clasp was circular, shaped like a bird whose wings curved down and around, the wing tips touching at the bottom. Its head was bowed so that its beak pointed downward to an emerald centered in a setting at the wing tips' joining. Its wings were smoothed and its beak was pointed rather than hooked; there were no talons.

"This is not a bird of prey," Zarekael observed. "Would not a predatory bird have been 

more . . . fitting?"

_Knowing what I know about you, you mean,_ Meli added silently. _No, if I wanted to buy a gift that represented you, I'd have given you a knife with a wolf's head on the handle._ Something about that bothered her, seeming to point to an unknown memory, but she could not identify what.

"This bird is a dove," she said aloud. "Doves are symbols of peace."

Zarekael's eyes narrowed in ironic humor. "I need hardly remind you that these are not peaceful times," he replied dryly.

Meli smiled. "No, you needn't do that," she assured him. She paused to signal a change in thought, then continued. "They're also symbols of friendship."

She had grown up in an environment in which nearly everything was symbolic, albeit generally dark and evil in meaning. Whether Zarekael had as rich of a background in symbolism or as strong of an appreciation for it as she did, she did not know. She saw, however, that, whatever he made of it, he comprehended her meaning.

"Thank you, Meli," he said again, his tone indicating that he spoke of the message rather than the cloak.

Zarekael carefully folded the cloak and set it on the coffee table to his right, picking up as he did a package wrapped in plain paper. This he handed to Meli with a look of amusement. "I also have a gift for you," he said.

"Thank you," she replied, accepting it. It was smaller, harder, and more compact than the cloak had been. She judged it to be a hard-bound book by both its size and weight.

The paper fell away, and Meli felt a fluttery thrill fly through her frame. It _was_ a book, with a portrait of Robert Burns on the dust jacket. That alone would have explained the rest, but beside it were scripted the confirming words _The Complete Works of Robert Burns._

Her fingers tingled as she ran them over the book. Mrs. Stafford had had one very like it; from its pages and her adoptive mother's voice Meli had learned "Scots Wha Hae", "For A' That", and so many more poems that she still carried, word for word, in her mind. Those pages were only memories now—the book had been reduced to ashes when Death Eaters had burned the Staffords' house after displaying their bodies outside. The Death Eaters had unknowingly deprived her of that treasure . . . and now one of their brothers had unknowingly restored it to her.

Tears brushed over her eyes enough to make them shine but without volume enough to fall. There were no words for the gratitude that flooded through her, and though it appeared that Zarekael understood that fact, she knew he could not be sensible of even half its meaning.

"Thank you, Ruthvencairn," she whispered, then, acutely aware that she was displaying far more emotion than she generally liked, she cleared her throat and said aloud, "Thank you."

He nodded once, formally. "I'm glad that it suits you," he replied.

_If you only knew the half of it . . ._

****

12 NOVEMBER 1981, THIRD YEAR

How Snape came to be invited to the hastily called meeting Meli was never told; she later guessed, however, that Dumbledore had summoned him because of their recently achieved understanding. Whatever the facts of the matter, Snape was in the headmaster's office with McGonagall when Meli and Dumbledore arrived. The headmaster had also had a letter from the Ministry, she soon learned, and his had been considerably more informative.

"Please take a seat," Dumbledore said, smiling gently—but the twinkle was gone from his eyes. She did as bidden, but her uneasiness grew.

"What's happened, sir?" she asked, proud that no quaver touched the words. "Why do the Aurors want to speak with me?" Any information she possessed had been rendered nearly useless by Voldemort's defeat a fortnight earlier; of what other value could she be to them?

Dumbledore's smile faded. "They want you to go in and answer a few questions," he replied.

Somehow a connection formed in her mind. "They've found someone dead, haven't they?" she asked in a low voice. "Who?"

The headmaster did not hesitate, though it seemed that he was reluctant. "Your . . . parents."

"Killed by Death Eaters," she finished for him, and now her voice did waver.

The three teachers regarded her silently for a moment before Dumbledore slowly nodded.

A void opened inside of her, swallowing all emotion. She had never felt this before and had no idea how to defend against it. She became suddenly and sickeningly aware of the scents from every one of Dumbledore's numerous candy dishes and tins, taunting her and playing at her already roiling stomach. The room grew fuzzy, and a distant roar filled her ears. The Death Eaters were sending her a clear message: though Voldemort was gone, her bane remained in effect. Everyone she valued was still doomed to die horribly at their hands.

She forced her vocal cords to cooperate, but it was a terrible battle. "What . . . what do 

they . . . want to ask me?" she rasped.

Dumbledore received cautionary looks from both Snape and McGonagall, but after a moment of looking measuringly at her, he replied, "They want you to . . . identify."

"I can't," she said immediately. "They're asking too much of me."

"You will not be going alone," Dumbledore assured her. "A teacher will accompany you."

She locked eyes with him. "Will I be allowed to attend their funerals?" she asked.

McGonagall seemed shocked by the question, further proof that she knew less of Meli than she might think. Snape, by contrast, seemed to soften slightly, compassion and understanding flickering in his eyes.

"Most certainly," Dumbledore answered firmly.

"What teacher will be accompanying me?" She knew it would probably be McGonagall, her Head of House, but hope reared its ugly head even now, when by all rights it should be crushed.

A faint trace of the headmaster's smile resurfaced. "After hearing the particulars of the situation," he said, "both Professors McGonagall and Snape have offered to serve as your chaperone." He paused, very obviously awaiting her decision.

McGonagall had probably volunteered out of duty and pity, Meli reflected darkly. Those two traits in concert were enough to drive her away under the best of circumstances; in this situation, they made their bearer the last person on earth around whom she had any desire to be. McGonagall would go as Meli's Head of House; Snape would go . . . not precisely as a _friend_, but more as a kindred spirit of sorts. Ironically, his presence would be far more comforting. If he pitied her, he wouldn't show it, and his idea of duty was vastly different from McGonagall's.

"If it's all the same to you, sir," Meli said slowly, "I think I'd prefer it if Professor Snape went with me."

Dumbledore's expression made no change, but Meli's sharp eyes showed her that McGonagall looked slightly relieved, and Snape was a bit surprised. Not at all unexpected, really, given her history with each of them.

"So how soon do I leave?" she asked quietly.

Snape allowed her one hour to return to Gryffindor Tower and pack. She changed into Muggle clothes and stuffed two extra T-shirts, a black dress, and a handful of other necessities into a small duffel. She forced herself not to think; to think was to risk comprehending, and to comprehend was to risk lowering her emotional defenses. Snape would respect her by not pitying her; she would likewise respect him by not crying and snuffling all over him. All in all, she considered it a fair trade.

According to an itinerary Snape quickly worked out with Dumbledore, they would go to the Ministry of Magic first, then to the Camerons' house, where Meli and Snape would stay until after the funeral. How Dumbledore had made such an arrangement with Muggles in so little time Meli could not guess, but she was glad for it; the Camerons were the only family she had left.

She and Snape arrived at the Ministry far sooner than she would have liked. Try as she might not to think, thoughts rebelled against restraint, forcing pictures to her mind. She could not rationally speculate on how her parents had met their end; she had seen far too many possible scenarios in her childhood to settle on only one or two more probable sequences. All she knew for certain was that their deaths had been horrible and incredibly painful, in keeping with the terms of her bane.

Snape had gone immediately to an official-looking witch behind a desk. She listened to his concise explanation with a bored air, then pointed out the correct corridor with her nail file. To Meli's eyes, Snape seemed twice the glowering tower of doom he normally did, but even that failed to impress the receptionist. Either she saw a great number of people like Severus Snape every day, or (the more likely possibility) she was so puffed up with her own official importance that such paltry things did not concern her.

The corridor was an intimidating marble structure that towered at least five stories above them. The walls did not terminate but rather curved inward, meeting in cold, imposing arches that, in spite of their height, threatened to crush anyone passing below them. The floor was no more reassuring, for it was populated by more witches and wizards like the receptionist. These officials rushed past, and had Snape not stood close by, they would probably have mowed her down. Caught as she was in this maze of importance, her own insignificance was readily apparent.

They at last arrived at their destination: an ostentatiously decorated office with a door at the back. Where the corridor had been hard and cold, the office was smotheringly plush and warm. Everything in it was a medium shade of mauve, and lamps situated on various tables throughout the room cast a glow that Meli supposed was intended to be comforting; it did not accomplish its goal.

Behind a massive desk sat the only visual relief: a puffed-up official-looking Auror who had probably not seen active duty since Voldemort was in diapers. He did not stand to greet them, nor did he greet them at all, preferring instead to lean back in his seat and regard them indolently over the hands he clasped comfortably atop his generous stomach. Meli disliked him immediately.

Snape glared at the man all the while he was stating their business.

"Ah, yes," the Auror drawled reflectively. "The Stafford case. Nasty mess _they _left behind, wasn't it?" The words left one hearer miserable and the other incensed.

Meli had never before seen Snape more than mildly nettled, but now he skipped past that to full anger. He advanced on the Auror and leaned over the desk to glare directly into that bureaucrat's eyes. "The Staffords happened to be _real_ people," he bit out. "They were dearly loved by their daughter, who happens to stand right in front of your bloated face if you'd care to look! I suggest you show some respect for them and for her, or you and I will have some _very_ unpleasant words. Is that understood?"

The Auror swallowed very hard, but he somehow retained some of his false dignity as he slowly stood under Snape's malevolent eye. He harrumphed a few times, but Meli saw that his cage was rattled, and she was very grateful to Snape for it.

"If you'll, ah, follow me?" the Auror stammered. He scurried to the door at the back of the office (a very odd thing to see a three-hundred pound bureaucrat pull off) and opened it for Snape and Meli to pass through. He stepped through behind them, then led them down another corridor, this one white and antiseptic. The smell reminded Meli of the brief hospital stay she'd had after the disastrous sleepover at Elizabeth Cameron's house.

Her throat tightened. Her mother had been there when she'd woken up, had comforted her with soft words and a kiss. This time, in this place, her mother would be there . . . but could not comfort her.

The Auror was whispering to Snape over her head, but she caught no snatch of words. Snape, by contrast, spoke aloud.

"Perhaps you should have considered that, Sackville, before you insisted that their daughter be the one to identify," he replied testily. "For someone so accustomed to covering his own rear, you seem quite inept at thinking ahead."

The Auror blanched and fell silent once more. The corridor now terminated at another door, through which he led them. This room was a morgue, and there were now only two inhabitants, neither living, both covered with sheets.

As soon as she stepped through this last doorway, a transformation took place in Meli that neither Snape nor Sackville could have anticipated. She seemed somehow to separate from herself. Emotions went dead, and an eerie, detached calm laid hold of her. Her only motivation now was an odd sort of curiosity to know if these were really Paul and Bianca Stafford and how they had come to their respective demises.

"It's not a pretty sight," the Auror said now, apologetically. "Do you want to do it now?"

Her body language had altered, changing her from a cowering mouse to a pondering predator. She turned her head languidly to look the Auror fully in the eye and noted that he stepped quickly away from her.

"You've brought me this far," she replied, her voice reptilian and cool. "What's one more step?"

Behind her, Snape stirred uneasily, but she ignored the noise, looking instead to the Auror, who eventually worked up the courage to move closer to her and pull back the sheet over the first body.

Voldemort would have highly approved, she knew, staring at the bloodied corpse. The face was clean and recognizable, the eyes and mouth widened in terror and agony. Marks and gashes marred the man's chest and one shoulder and, probably, the rest of his body, as well. His body beneath the sheet had an irregular shape on top, indicating that it had been cut apart and pieced back together. He had been thirty-eight years old.

"How did he die?" she asked coolly.

Sackville looked very ill. "He—was tortured," he managed to reply. "Then killed with the instant death curse."

"And afterward they took a hatchet to the body," she finished for him. "The intent was not to harm him further, since he was already dead, but to warn someone. Very effective." She raised her eyebrows. "It's Paul Stafford, of course. My father."

Sackville stared at her, plainly not comprehending her collectedness. While she realized that such an exterior could probably get her into trouble—possibly even make her a suspect for a time—she could not yet return to herself; she had utterly lost her way.

The second body looked much different. Subdermal red blotches covered the woman's face and shoulders, marring her once-perfect ivory complexion. Her eyes, too, were wide with pain, her mouth frozen forever in a dying scream. Hatchet gashes also lined her neck and shoulders, and her body was similarly misshapen beneath the sheet.

"Bianca Stafford," Meli said calmly. "My mother." She didn't add that the woman had died of a Sangriatus Venarupturum curse, though she could have done it; she was thoroughly detached, but she was not stupid. She turned deadened eyes once more to the Auror and forced a waver into her voice to simulate emotion and put the Auror off-scent of her actual condition. "May I go now?"

Misled understanding ran through Sackville's eyes, and he nodded. "Thank you for coming, Miss Stafford," he said civilly. "I'm sorry to have put you through this."

"Remember you said that," Snape told him darkly. "If you remember how sorry you are, perhaps you won't needlessly put another child through it!"

Meli was still too detached to wonder at Snape's defensiveness of her. She merely looked up at him, waiting until he was ready to leave. His glittering black eye found her gaze, and she read in it some concern as they left.

The strange, numb detachment lasted until well through the evening. The Camerons greeted her kindly, and they were simply delighted to meet Meli's chemistry teacher Mr. Snape. Scott, Andrew, and Elizabeth had been called home for the Staffords' funeral, so Meli found herself surrounded by puzzled people who wondered at her odd, unconcerned composure. Snape did not wonder, but he worried.

After dinner, Elizabeth dragged her upstairs and subjected her to what Meli silently dubbed French water torture. Determined to elicit some emotional response from her friend, even if it was irritation, Elizabeth filled the bathtub with hot water and the smelliest French bubble bath she could lay her hands on, then insisted that Meli get in and relax. To her disappointment, Meli merely arched an eyebrow and complied.

Elizabeth's next stunt was rather more successful. After Meli judged that she had "relaxed" enough, she exited the bathtub to find that Elizabeth had taken all of her clothes, leaving behind only a big, fluffy bathrobe, a pair of pink bunny slippers, and a note that said: 

__

Dessert down in the sitting room—Mum's making you 

blackberry tea and bread with lemon curd. Come 

straight down! 

Love, Liz

__

PS Don't try the bedroom; I've locked it with your

clothes inside, and the window's latched.

Muttering irritably, Meli donned the ridiculous attire, making sure that the robe adequately covered everything, and grumbled her way down the stairs. She entered the sitting room with an intangible storm cloud surrounding her and found that only Elizabeth and Professor Snape had yet arrived. Elizabeth took one look at Meli's face and dashed out to "help Mum with the tea."

Snape, meanwhile, had not managed to conceal completely his smirk. Meli crossed her arms and glared. "She stole my clothes," she muttered viciously, then threw herself huffily into a chair, nevertheless moving carefully to keep the bathrobe from shifting. "Even Crim wouldn't have done that to me."

Before Snape could reply, Andrew and Scott entered, glancing at Meli with mixed surprise and amusement, and found seats of their own. A moment later, the remaining three Camerons entered, two with trays of tea and cake plates. Mrs. Cameron passed around cake, giving Meli a plate of bread and lemon curd instead, and Elizabeth passed around the tea cups. Meli took her cup, but before she could set it down, it exploded with a suddenness that surprised even her.

She started up, panic starting to edge its way past irritation. These people were Muggles . . . she had never lost control like that before . . . everyone was staring at her . . . there was tea in her eyes—the thoughts whirled crazily through her head. Somehow she managed to get out an apology, then fled the room.

Elizabeth caught up to her halfway up the stairs. "Meli!" she called softly. "Here, come with me."

"I'm _not_ taking another bath!" Meli snapped.

"I don't ask you to," Elizabeth replied. "But I have something to show you."

Meli reluctantly turned to follow the other girl through the house to the garage. Elizabeth flicked on the light to reveal a large table along one wall. It was twice as long as the worktables in the Potions room and about as tall, and it was covered with well over a hundred terra cotta plant pots.

Meli looked at Elizabeth, nonplused. "The point of this?"

"Dad's been saying since he and Mum got married that he'd have a potted garden someday," the other explained. "It never happened, but he kept buying pots, to keep the dream alive, he said." She shrugged. "Well, he's stopped buying pots, Meli, but he can't bear to get rid of them himself. He asked Scott and Andrew and me to do it." She looked seriously at Meli. "The car's out in the drive, and we don't keep anything important here. If you want to break something, you've got plenty of munitions available, and we'll all thank you for it."

Meli stared at her for a moment, then turned a thoughtful gaze on the pots. When she looked back again, Elizabeth was gone.

Had Elizabeth brought her at first, she'd have elicited no reaction from Meli. Having somehow worked past the emotional barriers, however, Elizabeth had gotten through to the anger pent up in her friend and had offered a ready outlet.

The last analytic detachment left to Meli reevaluated her opinion of Elizabeth, changing it from annoying but helpful to determined and sneaky. No longer was Elizabeth Cameron the Muggle Hufflepuff; in Meli's mind, she had become a faithful Gryffindor with a subtle but nasty Slytherin streak.

All other rational thought melted away the moment her fingers touched a pot. The first one hit the wall with a satisfying smash and sent shards flying in all directions. After that, she perceived nothing very clearly.

A loud crash reverberated through the house just as Elizabeth reentered the sitting room. Snape looked up, somewhat alarmed, but she offered him a tired, reassuring smile. "Meli's found some pots to break," was all she said.

Snape arched an eyebrow. "I see."

"So, Mr. Snape," Scott said composedly as another smashing pot sounded. "When did you decide you wanted to teach chemistry?"

Andrew groaned. "Get _over_ it, Scotty! Not everyone knows his destiny from birth!"

Scott kicked him soundly in the leg. "I don't say I do," he retorted calmly. "I'm just wondering if it's truly possible to know at age seventeen what one wants to do with one's life."

The next crash must have come from a pot twice as big as those previous. It was a moment before Snape could reply. "It's possible to know where you want to go for the next few years," he conceded. "I don't believe anyone ever truly realizes what they should do with their entire lives."

Scott fell silent, looking profoundly thoughtful. Andrew gazed scornfully at him, then turned to Elizabeth. "And I hope _you're_ planning to clean that mess up, Liz," he growled as yet another pot met its noisy end.

Elizabeth smiled sweetly. "No, Andrew," she replied. "Actually, I was thinking of letting you do it after I've stolen and hidden all of your shoes and socks."

At that reply, Andrew shut up. No one said anything for a time. They sat in silence, listening to the pots smashing, until words started accompanying the crashes. While Snape could not understand what Meli was saying, he thought it prudent to excuse himself and go check on her, just in case some of the syllables were spells. The last thing anyone needed was for her to wreak magical damage in her present state.

They were not spells, he soon learned. He stood outside the door leading to the garage and listened in mingled shock and admiration to the things Meli was shouting about Voldemort, Death Eaters, and bureaucrats named Sackville. Much of what she said was anatomically impossible, and none of it was intended for the ears of people with vivid imaginations. One particularly nasty description of Voldemort's relationship with his mother was followed by the sound of a pot the size of a brew cauldron hitting the wall. Where the solemn thirteen-year-old Meli Ebony had picked up such a vocabulary was a speculation Snape had no wish to make; even Collum Fell stopped far short of such terminology.

After twenty or so further minutes, the pots and profanity stopped flying, and Snape thought it might be safe to enter. The garage was a disaster, its floor covered with orange pottery shards and its air thick with terra cotta dust. The table along the far wall still held about a dozen terra cotta pots, but all of the rest lay in pieces on the floor. Huddled among these pieces was Meli, her face buried in her arms as brokenhearted sobs wracked her body.

There was nothing Snape could do but watch her cry. Words would offer no comfort. He himself had experienced the transition from numbed shock to painful awakening, though never to such a dramatic extent. All he could offer was his presence.

How long he stood there, he could not tell, but at last Meli looked up, the last of her sobs fading slowly away. She looked around her, seeming not at all to comprehend where she was or why. Her eyes passed over Snape without offering any flicker of recognition or understanding. She looked back at him a moment later and furrowed her brow slightly. "I guess I was a little angry," she remarked tiredly.

Snape raised his eyebrows fractionally. "Just a bit," he replied dryly.

"Well." She got slowly to her feet, conscious once more of the bathrobe. "Let's hope that doesn't happen again anytime soon."

It didn't. 

****

PRESENT: CHRISTMAS DAY

Her eyes were still shining when she knocked at Snape's door. Snape answered, and he seemed at first alarmed to find her in such a mood.

"No, Severus, I haven't been drinking," she assured him dryly. "I'm just having an unusually merry Christmas."

He smirked. "And do I have the privilege of seeing you after you've been decking the halls, or a-wassailing?"

"Putting a cherry bomb under Santa's sleigh, actually," she rejoined.

Snape sighed and shook his head, then stood aside to admit her. "Only a Skulker would declare war on Father Christmas."

Meli grinned. "Just because I prefer to deliver gifts myself," she said stoutly. "I've a right to waylay the old sod before he can make off with my presents, haven't I?"

"Am I to assume, then, that this is prelude to a gift delivery?" Snape asked, amused.

"Something of the sort," she replied. "I _do_ have your Christmas present with me." She held up the gift in question. It was also wrapped in blue paper, though it was significantly smaller than Zarekael's had been.

"Should I be frightened?" Snape inquired ironically.

Meli smirked. "Possibly."

Unable to get anything more out of her, Snape settled for neatly untaping the paper and setting it aside, allowing the contents to unfold and slip free. He reflexively snatched at it, catching it by one end before it could fall all the way to the floor.

Meli smiled as he held it up, a look of profound puzzlement forming on his face. It was a narrow strip of metallic blue cloth that flared outward at one end and came to a point at each end.

"It's a Muggle necktie, Severus," she said helpfully.

He arched an eyebrow, not the less nonplused for that change of expression.

Meli sighed. "It goes perfectly well with black," she explained. "But it'll add color to your outfit and possibly even, dare I say it, make you look a touch less like a brooding wizard when you next find it expedient to pose as a Muggle."

"I . . . see."

"Now, Severus," she said, mock-reproachfully, "you're very hard to shop for, you know. What else was I supposed to get for you?"

A touch of Snape's earlier amusement returned. "Books are a popular item," he replied.

"And consequently a predictable one," she added airily. "I prefer to be creative."

"Well . . ." Snape looked from her to the tie, then back again. "I most certainly would not have predicted this."

She raised her eyebrows. "I suppose I can live with that shocking revelation."

Snape sobered again, then drew from his pocket a flat, white box about the length and width of a playing card. There was neither wrapping paper nor bow, but it was unmistakably intended for her.

"A gift for _me_, Severus?" she said, attempting to lighten his mood somewhat. "You shouldn't have."

"And yet I did," he replied, quite seriously. He handed it to her.

Meli carefully accepted it, her own mood tempered by Snape's. She lifted off the lid and found underneath it the last thing she would have expected: a ring.

The band was not solid; rather, it was composed of several strands of silver woven intricately together, the ends twisting up and around in a setting for the stone. The stone itself was a multi-faceted onyx.

She was utterly bewildered. She was not at all a jewelry person, nor could she think of anything she had done to give a contrary impression to anyone, much less Snape. And for him, a single male, to give a ring to her, a single female colleague, seemed a little odd and more than a little alarming. She wore already the ring of another man who had died shortly after offering it, and even more disturbing was the thought, however utterly absurd, that Snape—

"This is not a proposal, Meli," he assured her quietly.

"Good," she managed, and her voice sounded suddenly strangled. "I was beginning to fear for either your sanity or mine."

One corner of his mouth turned up briefly in ironical amusement. "Even if my sentiments turned that direction—which they do not—I would never act on them, for a variety of reasons." His countenance became serious once more. "No, Meli, this is a message, and, if you choose to see it so, a reminder."

"What sort of message?" she asked.

"You wear Andrew's ring as a reminder of the consequences of friendship."

Her throat tightened. "Yes," she replied cautiously. "People who come too close to me die. You know that quite well. It's safer for everyone that I keep my distance."

"You separate yourself for the protection of others," Snape said, almost gently. "But friendship has two directions, Meli, not one. There are those who wish not to be protected but to protect. There are friends who would willingly sacrifice themselves for you if you would give them the chance."

"And what about the ones who don't have a chance, Severus?" Meli demanded, her voice raising in pitch. "What about Elizabeth? Worse, what about Meli Golden? A _four-year-old child_! Maybe, given the chance, she'd have done as you say, but her life was taken from her. She didn't have a choice, and it's because of _me_, Severus!"

Snape had difficulty speaking for a moment, and Meli felt a stab of conscience. Something in her words had hit him harder than she'd intended.

At last, however, Snape mastered his voice. "You do a grave injustice to one kind of friend by equating it with another," he told her. "There are those who have no chance—who would be given no choice, either because they are helpless or because they are ignorant of the matter." He locked eyes with her. "But there are those who know fully what such friendship entails and who choose to pursue it anyway. Andrew's ring reminds you of the former. With this ring, I hope to point out to you the latter."

She respected Snape too much to harbor her anger for long, and its dissipation was helped by the shame his reply evoked. He would never accuse her openly, but whether by design or by accident, he had done it implicitly and justly. The Goldens had been blissfully ignorant of their danger because she had been afraid to warn them, and that ignorance, as much as the wand and knife of their unknown executioner, had killed them. She lowered her eyes, unable to meet his anymore, and her gaze came to rest on the silver ring.

There was, as he had said, another kind of friend. He was one, and so were Zarekael, Andrea, and Collum. So had Crim been. They were prudent enough to fly under radar, but each and every one of them, cognizant of the potential consequences, stood by her in his or her own fashion.

And yet there was still the first kind . . .

She looked up again. "I never make rash decisions, sir," she said in a low voice. "But I promise to consider your words and to act on my conclusions as soon as I reach them."

"That's all I ask," Snape replied. "Happy Christmas, Meli."

She smiled. "Happy Christmas." Wishing to dispel the weight of the moment, she arched an impish eyebrow. "Like to come help me tie tin cans to the back bumper of Father Christmas' sleigh?" she invited.

Snape's eyes narrowed in a near-smile. "No, thank you," he replied. "I've gotten one lump of coal from him this year; I'd hate to have him haul out an entire hopper car for me next year."

"You're far too considerate of the old man," Meli chided. "He's a criminal, you know. Traveling all over the world without passing through customs, breaking and entering through unguarded 

chimneys . . . Mark my words, Severus: he's destined for the hangman's rope one of these days."

"I doubt, somehow, that your petty harassment will keep him from that fate," Snape pointed out.

"I don't try to," she rejoined. "It's all in the spirit of the season."

"I . . . see."


	20. Skulking At Its Best

****

Chapter 20: Skulking At Its Best

****

25 DECEMBER

Harry, Ron, and Hermione gathered in the Gryffindor common room, Harry with the invisibility cloak and Hermione with a torch. The last time Harry had ventured into the library after hours, he had done it by himself; it was comforting to know that he wouldn't be alone this time. He had come to rely on his friends' help and resourcefulness in a pinch.

They slipped through the corridors, draped in the cloak and taking care to move quietly. As they came around a corner, the sound of energetic humming checked their progress. A moment later, Dumbledore came into sight, skipping lightly down the hallway in unshod feet, his robes pulled up just far enough to reveal his new striped wool toe socks. He seemed fully absorbed by his skipping and his beaming observation of his feet. It was a few minutes before he finally skipped out of sight and earshot.

"And I thought he was nutters _before_," Ron breathed. Harry and Hermione made no comment, but they exchanged traumatized glances. They took a few minutes to recover, then resumed their progress toward the library.

As Hermione had said, an entire stack side was devoted to Hogwarts yearbooks. Based on Harry's half-memory that Ebony's first year teaching had been his last year of primary school, they were able to calculate roughly when she would have been a student at Hogwarts. In a matter of minutes, the three of them were poring over seven old yearbooks. The first two were problematic; they found a Meli Stafford who looked about right, but there was no one named Meli Ebony. They made a note of that, then looked for whatever other information the yearbooks would yield. There was no Phamelia Marvolo anywhere to be seen, but Crimson Fell could be found in all seven books, along with Meli Ebony in the last five.

"Well, Ebony didn't play quidditch," Ron whispered, sounding disappointed. "But she _was_ a Gryffindor."

"Here's a picture of her with some Slytherins whose names you'll know," Hermione muttered. "Crimson Fell and Dirk Pierce."

Ron flipped a page, then let out a quiet laugh. "Here's another picture of her with those two, and there's another fellow—a Gryffindor named Collum Fell. The caption calls them The Skulkers."

Hermione whipped her head about to look at Ron's book. "The Skulkers!" she whispered excitedly. "I know about them. They've got a whole chapter in _Hogwarts, A History_! They're the greatest Hogwarts pranksters ever—and that's just based on what we _know_ they did. Most of the time, they were never caught." She took Ron's book from him and flipped through a few pages. "I thought so!" she said triumphantly. "Look!"

There, in all of the three-dimensional glory of magical photographs, was displayed a sullen-looking boy about sixteen or seventeen years old. He had been stripped to his boxers (which were pink and covered with red and white hearts) and bound around the wrists, ankles, and mouth with something that looked suspiciously like duct tape. Also affixed with duct tape was a sign across his chest that proclaimed, in bold, red letters: "I AM THE FOOL WHO TRIED TO TAKE ON THE SKULKERS! HAPPY GRADUATION. SHOP AT ZONKO'S."

Ron and Harry stared in amused horror at the picture. It was several minutes before they remembered to look at the caption, which explained matter-of-factly, "The Skulkers go out with a bang four days before graduation, with the help of fellow seventh year Anthony Flint."

"Ebony . . . did _that_?!" Ron whispered, his eyes the size of platters.

"And a number of other things, too," Hermione replied. "This is the only one anybody got a picture of, though, as well as the only one they ever claimed direct responsibility for."

_Note to self,_ Harry thought. _Don't cross Ebony—for a whole lot of reasons besides the ones we already knew about._

Ron had managed to tear his eyes away from the picture and was now pulling down another seven years' worth of yearbooks, which covered Zarekael's time as a student. "I don't know what to look for," he admitted, shooting a sidelong glance at Anthony Flint. "Zarekael didn't come until after Ebony graduated."

"We're looking for clues," Harry replied. "Anything that'll help us piece it together."

"Well, I don't think we'll find anything here," Ron murmured, turning from the student index to Zarekael's picture, which crossed its arms and glared fiercely at him. "Other than his individual and House pictures, there's nothing on him. And still no Phamelia Marvolo."

They spent a frustratingly fruitless hour poring through the yearbooks. While the ones from Ebony's years yielded more information (mostly about the Skulkers in general), they told the friends nothing they wanted to know about either Ebony's strange seizures or any possible tie between her seizures and either Snape or Zarekael, nor were there any clues about ties between Phamelia Marvolo and either Crimson Fell or Dirk Pierce. At last, they gave up, and after another long, horrified look at Anthony Flint, they returned the yearbooks to their places and left the library once more.

Rounds were far more enjoyable during the Christmas holidays. Only a handful of students stayed over, and of those, only a few were disposed to sneak out. Granted, those few did include the Weasley twins and the ever-adventurous Harry Potter & Co., but knowing a few tricks of the sneaking and skulking trade went a good way toward minimizing potential security gaps—and Meli knew more than a few of those tricks.

She and Zarekael had been scheduled for rounds together on the evening of Christmas Day. They prowled the halls, watching and listening for students out of bed, but since there were only a few to worry about, they were able to relax their vigilance and have some friendly conversation in the meantime.

They had a bit of a scare at one point when a series of rhythmic thumps echoed down the corridor, but a moment later, Zarekael's sharp ears picked up fervent humming, and he and Meli stepped aside just as Dumbledore came a round the corner, humming and skipping and looking intently at his toes, which he wiggled in joy whenever they were off the ground. He skipped straight past without seeing them, then skipped around the corner at the next cross-corridor.

Meli and Zarekael traded astonished looks.

"Perhaps it would have been safer to give him a book," Meli said. "Those socks have put him right over the edge."

Zarekael nodded, but he seemed to have nothing to add to her observation.

She glanced at him, then cleared her throat. "Speaking of things which put people over the edge," she remarked lightly, "I've given some serious thought to the problem of Brown, Patil, and Trelawney." She frowned as a completely irrelevant thought crossed her mind. "Sounds like a law firm, doesn't it? I can hear the advertisement now: 'Brown, Patil, and Trelawney—we chase the ambulance so you don't have to!'" She shook her head. "_Any_way, as I said, I've been considering the problem."

Zarekael looked at her from the corners of his eyes, a smirk beginning to form. "Indeed?"

"Yes." She smiled impishly. "It's very hard not to think as a Skulker, though. I would so _love_ to run them through an elaborate maze purely for my own amusement."

"That may not be the wisest course," Zarekael observed. "Though the idea is appealing."

"And I don't think our reputations could withstand it." Meli sighed. "It's terribly frustrating . . . but unfortunately it would seem that the only good course here is to ignore them or to set the record straight should one or more come poking around again." She shook her head, but the rest of her lament fell away forgotten when she caught sight of Zarekael: he had stopped suddenly, his head slightly cocked as if he were listening very intently to a distant sound.

"What is it?" she asked quietly. While his manner did not suggest danger or urgency, it never hurt to be cautious.

"Students," he said softly, humor touching the word. "They've had a disappointment in the library from the sound of it."

"Who?"

"Potter, Weasley, and Granger," he replied. He arched a sardonic eyebrow. "Is that another law firm?"

She smiled slyly. "Not devious enough."

"Shall we sneak up on them?"

Meli's smile widened to a grin as an idea came to her from her Skulking days. "Actually," she said, "do you mind if I duck out for an hour? I've an idea that should keep them religiously to their beds for the rest of the holidays."

"Sounds amusing," Zarekael commented. "By all means, step away for an hour."

"Leave them to me." With those words, Meli slipped away, lifting her hood and buttoning up her duster as she went. _I hope you've all got a high tolerance for adrenaline,_ she thought gleefully, _because otherwise you won't be sleeping a wink tonight!_

Harry, Hermione, and Ron were about halfway back to Gryffindor tower when the sound of humming once more reached their ears. They halted and watched, traumatized into silence, as Dumbledore passed them again, still skipping, still humming "The Irish Washerwoman", still oblivious to anything but his new socks. He stopped his forward progress almost immediately in front of them and started skipping in circles for several minutes. The threesome looked impatiently from one another to Dumbledore, but they could not move from their place for fear of running into their deliriously happy headmaster.

Dumbledore finally decided the time had come to skip down the corridor once more, and to the friends' relief, he did not pause again before he rounded a corner and disappeared.

"I hope he's not like that when classes start again," Hermione said, shaking her head. "Can you imagine the lack of discipline if students see the headmaster acting like a little kid?"

"I doubt he'd act like that during the day," Harry replied. "At night, he can do whatever he wants; we're all in bed."

While the irony of this statement occurred to all of them, none had any notion of pointing it out. They started back to Gryffindor again, moving a bit more quickly just in case Dumbledore inadvertently cornered them again. They arrived unscathed, endured a scolding from the Fat Lady for being out after hours, and slipped into the common room, intent on sleeping through the rest of the night.

Harry was nearly to the boys' staircase, Ron immediately behind him, when a fourth person—most definitely _not_ Hermione—cleared her throat. He and Ron spun around, and, over by the girls' staircase, Hermione did the same, just in time to see a black-cloaked and hooded figure standing up to face them. She pulled her hood back, and the face of Professor Ebony smiled coolly at the three of them.

"Out for a stroll, were we?" she asked casually.

"Ah . . . er—" Hermione broke off, no explanation coming to mind. Harry and Ron were too surprised to offer her any assistance.

Ebony's smile turned into a reptilian grin. "Oh, dear," she said. "Not a one of you with enough Slytherin to come up with an excuse on short notice." She shook her head. "And where others have been served by preternatural hearing within their party, your party has been quite undone by the same trait outside of it."

"You heard us out in the hallway?" Ron asked.

She smirked. "Well, someone did, anyway," she allowed. "I just happened to be speaking with that person at the time." She raised her eyebrows. "Rounds, you know. Prefects aren't the only ones who patrol the corridors at night."

Ron said something under his breath, and Harry suspected it was profanity.

"There's no need for that," Ebony told him calmly. "I'm not Filch, after all. I have no intention of punishing you; I'm just curious to know what it was you found—I don't even ask what you were looking for."

"Wouldn't those be the same thing?" Harry pointed out.

Ebony pursed her lips. "Usually, yes. However . . ." She smiled again. "Your mannerisms and general demeanors are indicative of failure in a quest."

The threesome exchanged looks conveying a myriad of different things: surprise, a bit of defensiveness, curiosity, and above all, a desperation to come up with a suitable reply. Hermione was silently elected spokeswoman for the group, to which nomination she quirked her mouth in distaste.

"Well," she said after a moment. "We _did_ stumble over the yearbooks . . . and we _did_ find mention of the Skulkers and . . . someone named Anthony Flint."

None of them had ever seen Ebony betray anything beyond light amusement (with the dramatic exception of the Halloween Ball, but no one was willing to admit that that had actually happened), but now she startled them all by throwing back her head and letting out a full-out laugh. She laughed for a whole minute, the threesome watching in frozen shock as her willowy frame shook beneath this unfamiliar assault. When at last she stopped, there were tears in her eyes.

"Of all the things for you to _'stumble over'_," she gasped. "Evidence of my misspent youth!" She grinned openly. "I hope you're not aspiring to such heights. With only two and a half years left and no Slytherins in on your planning, you haven't a chance."

"What's so great about Slytherins?" Ron growled.

Ebony's eyes hooded strangely. "They're wonderful schemers," she replied. "Very subtle thinkers, who specifically plan not to get caught. Gryffindors . . ." She shrugged and looked a bit regretful. "Speaking as one, I have to admit that we excel at brazen ideas and fall a bit short on the not getting caught part."

"We hardly ever get caught!" Ron retorted.

Ebony raised her eyebrows. "Except for the times when we planned to get caught," she countered calmly, "we _never_ were." She furrowed her brow. "Well, there was the one time in Potions . . . but that was somewhat calculated, so it really doesn't count."

There seemed no fitting reply to this, so they were silent. Ebony surveyed them, amusement still haunting her eyes. "Whatever it is you sought," she said quietly, "I _do _hope you find it." She stepped away from her chair and over to the portrait hole, then, just before leaving, turned back. "But consider that if it's to be found in old yearbooks, the research can be done much more safely and unobtrusively in the daytime. Yearbooks are hardly suspicious pieces of literature."

With that wisdom, she exited, leaving the trio to stare at each other.

Ron found his voice first. "Well," he said with a shrug, "I knew she was cool. No points from Gryffindor, after all!" He started up the boys' staircase.

Harry and Hermione stood looking at each other a moment longer, then Harry said, very seriously, "We got lucky this time."

Hermione nodded wordlessly, her eyes wide, and the two of them turned and headed up their respective staircases to their respective bedrooms, where they pondered their potential fates in silence as sleep eluded them.

****

5 NOVEMBER 1981, THIRD YEAR

Meli and Collum sat in a corner of the Gryffindor common room, to all appearances studying hard. Occasionally one or the other would lean over as if to compare notes, but otherwise they were silent. Since most Gryffindors considered them honorary Slytherins, the two were left strictly alone, which was precisely as they preferred it.

"It's definitely on for tonight," Collum murmured, apparently consulting a passage in Meli's upside-down Muggle Studies text. "Crim's pushed him just hard enough."

"'Just hard enough?'" Meli repeated, arching an eyebrow and glancing at Collum's blank star chart. "Crim's definition of 'just hard enough' is a bit more generous than most."

Collum smirked. "Sharpie kept her from going too far," he assured her.

They returned for a time to their pretended study, then Meli leaned in for a closer look at Collum's Transfiguration text. "Sharpie's got the dung bombs?"

"Naturally. It wouldn't do to get caught without them."

She smirked. "This is the first prank I've ever taken part in that actually _requires_ us to get caught."

"We'll be caught, all right," Collum said. "Filch is near his breaking point, thanks to Crim—or should I say Flint?"

"You should," Meli replied innocently. "After all, it's not _our_ fault Filch is so angry of late."

And they don't think you've got any Slytherin in you," Collum chortled softly. "You come from a very odd family, Meli."

"_I_ come from an odd family?" she retorted. "Says the Gryffindor whose mother is a Ravenclaw, whose father and twin sister are Slytherins, and whose younger brother is a Hufflepuff? At least my family can decide which House it consistently belongs to!" She pulled away again and opened her Defense Against the Dark Arts text.

"Er, excuse me," a timid voice piped up. Meli resisted the reflex to jump and turned calmly to face Estella Pippin, who had come up sometime during the conversation.

"Yes?"

Estella forced a smile. "Well, it's just that . . ." she stammered. "Well, you see, I'm having trouble with my Potions essay, and . . . well, you're so good in the class I wondered if . . . well, if you might help me."

Meli had trouble keeping the shock from her face. "You want me to help you," she stated. "You _trust_ me to help you."

"Well . . ." Estella trailed off uncertainly, then finally replied, "Well, yes. And it's just that you're so terribly clever—"

"Estella," Meli said quietly. "Do you know that Snape hates me? If he finds out I've helped you at all, he'll give you a zero." Not entirely true, that, but who knew enough to dispute the claim?

Estella smiled feebly. "He'll give me a zero anyway, Meli. I'm simply not clever enough to earn higher. But I know that you're good at explaining things, so whatever my score, at least I'll have learned the subject."

Meli raised her eyebrows. "Well, when you put it _that_ way . . ." She looked apologetically to the highly amused Collum. "I'll be back."

Estella led her to the opposite corner of the common room, which was just as deserted. The essay in question was a particularly nasty one, even for Snape, so Meli led Estella carefully through the mechanics of the potion, drilling her on each point before Estella touched quill to parchment. When the essay was finally completed, Estella laid down her quill with a sigh. "I've never had a teacher so cruel."

Meli smiled. "It's not that Snape's cruel," she said. "At least not when it comes to essays. The problem is, he's so brilliant he has trouble comprehending that we don't understand everything he knows." She started to stand, but Estella took her hand.

"Meli, I don't know what you and Collum are working up," she whispered urgently, "but if you're planning to go out tonight, don't!"

Meli frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"It's Filch. I heard him hollering at Flint just after dinner. Flint didn't have a clue what he was talking about, said you and the Fells must be cooking something up. Filch is waiting for you, Meli! He'll catch you!"

"_Did_ he, then." Meli bit her lip and looked to the side, giving every appearance of being deep in thought. "I'll have to let Collum know." She squeezed Estella's arm, then stood to go. "Thanks for the warning."

She was careful to keep up a brooding appearance all the way across the room, knowing that Estella's anxious eyes were following her.

"Trouble?" Collum murmured as she sat down beside him.

"On the contrary," Meli murmured back, "we're good to go." She held up her Muggle Studies book to hide her face as she grinned at him. "Estella wanted to warn me that Filch is waiting for us—and reading between the lines, so is Flint, most likely."

"Excellent!"

The Skulkers rendezvoused outside the kitchens, where they held a whispered conference and Sharpie issued dung bombs. All four were dressed for the occasion, clad in matte black from crown to toe so that they more resembled ninjas than pranksters out for a night of innocent fun and games. Crim passed on the vital intelligence that her preternaturally sensitive ears had caught the sound of someone following her and Sharpie from the Slytherin common room. They grinned silently at one another, then parted ways, Crim going with Collum and Meli with Sharpie.

Since they had no particular mission other than attracting the notice of Peeves, Filch, or Mrs. Norris, they wandered silently through the corridors, looking for something noisy to trip over.

Peeves found Meli and Sharpie without their having to make any noise. He flew at them from behind a suit of armor, laughing maniacally. Meli ducked, letting out a quite voluntary shriek, while Sharpie settled for swearing loudly and hurling a dung bomb at the fleeing poltergeist.

"Ooh, you shouldn't do that, you know!" Peeves shouted gleefully, coming back for another pass. "Might get Filch in a tizzy, it might!" The dung bomb flew straight through him and exploded against a painting of one of Hogwarts' former headmasters. The painting spluttered furiously, but Sharpie and Meli took to their feet before they could hear anything coherent from him. Peeves chased after them, all the while shouting for Filch.

That worthy sir caught up to them just as they were ducking around a corner. He grabbed Meli by the arm and deftly tripped Sharpie, whom he just as deftly pulled upright again. "My, my," the groundskeeper muttered. "We're certainly busy tonight, aren't we."

"All thanks to me!" Peeves announced haughtily. "_I_ caught the other four, remember!"

"_No_ thanks to you, you mean!" Filch snapped. "Now go away, or I'll have words with the Baron about you!"

Peeves glared at Filch, then shot back around the corner, cursing a blue streak. Sharpie and Meli, meanwhile, locked eyes in silent dismay. Filch had caught _four_?

Sharpie swore again, quite feelingly.

There were indeed four others in Filch's office, held at bay by the formidable Mrs. Norris. Three were expected: Crimson and Collum Fell, and Anthony Flint. The fourth, however, was quite unexpected and quite unwelcome.

"Hullo, Estella," Meli said casually as Filch pushed her into his office and removed her mask. "Out for a walk in the fresh night air, were you?"

Estella's bottom lip was trembling. "I told you not to come, Meli—I _told_ you!" she cried. "Why didn't you believe me?"

Meli forced a look of resentment she didn't in the least feel. "Fell there convinced me we could get around it," she said bitterly. "What a fool I am, eh? What a silly duck I'm proven to be."

Estella frowned briefly, then her eyes widened in sudden realization. "I came to warn you," she continued, doing a pretty good job of covering the conversational lapse. "But Peeves made a racket and brought Filch."

"Quiet, you lot!" Filch barked, shoving Sharpie and Meli past Mrs. Norris and stepping to his desk. "Time I filled out a report and called your Heads of House. A lot of points from Slytherin and Gryffindor tonight!"

"I've never seen him so delighted," Crim said lightly.

"My only consolation for any of this is that you lot got caught alongside of me," Flint growled, showing his hideous teeth.

"Tsk, tsk," Collum admonished. "You oughtn't to go scowling like that, Anthony. One day, your face will freeze in that position, and you'll look like an ugly git for the rest of your life." He paused, shrugged, then added, "But then, you do that anyway, so maybe you don't mind."

Flint stood and brandished a fist. "Like to say that again, Fell?" he snarled.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Collum said, wholly unapologetic. "I was under the mistaken impression you could hear perfectly well. Shall I make deaf signs for you?" He fluttered his hands in meaningless motions, then calculatedly flipped Flint off.

He ducked Flint's fist, then returned with a blow of his own, much better aimed and more clearly planned. Flint doubled over, dropped to the floor, and did not move. The Skulkers laid out their dung bombs near Flint, then turned to Filch, all with their wands out.

The groundskeeper didn't stand a chance of resisting four simultaneously cast short-term memory charms all aimed at him. He had stood to intervene in the altercation, but now he stopped, a glazed look in his eyes. Sharpie had already bent over Flint to do the same for him and to retrieve the fellow Slytherin's wand and place it in his hand. Meli, meanwhile, had gotten hold of Filch's report and tucked it into her robes, and Crim had stupefied, obliviated, and enervated Mrs. Norris, allowing the others to get past. Without a word, the Skulkers slipped out of Filch's office with Estella in tow.

They parted ways and returned to their respective Houses, but even Crim's sensitive ears missed the presence of a tall shadow that slipped through the corridors behind them, then ducked away to the dungeons and disappeared once more.

The Skulkers slept soundly the rest of the night and awakened to the shocking news that Anthony Flint had been caught red-handed in the commission of some fearful prank involving enough dung bombs to cover the entire castle in manure. For that offense, Slytherin faced a stiff penalty of one hundred points. There was no mention of five other students, nor of any of three possible memory lapses (Flint's, Filch's, or Mrs. Norris'), much to Estella's relief. The Skulkers, by contrast, were perfectly impervious to nerves, and not a one of them was capable of blushing.

There were no triumphant looks exchanged when they saw each other in Double Potions, no mutual satisfaction expressed; to all appearances, they had no job well done of which to be proud. Life went on as usual . . . until halfway through Potions.

Snape walked sedately between the tables, advising Slytherins and criticizing Gryffindors. Samuel Wise and Estella Pippin, in particular, received scathing remarks as a matter of course. Wise had started to tremble so badly that he had to put down his knife to keep from removing a finger, and Estella seemed to be praying for a reprieve. Her eyes were so tightly screwed shut that Meli thought she must have developed a migraine.

A pang of sympathy was cut short by the appearance of a shadow over her work area. Meli set down her knife and looked up to find Snape towering over her. The Potions master, now that she had a good look at him, looked like his usual self, but with a subtle, disturbing addition: wry amusement.

She waited for him to speak, unwilling to provoke any deductions from Gryffindor. It was, fortunately, a short wait.

"Miss Stafford, I wonder if you would mind staying after class."

She smiled. "No, sir, of course not."

Snape's eyes narrowed, and she had the impression that he nearly smiled before he stepped away to launch into a tirade against Estella, whose potion had boiled over and ignited.

"And what do you suppose that's about?" Collum whispered.

Meli shook her head. "I shudder to think," she said dryly, then calmly picked up her knife and went back to work.

This time she did not have the advantage of having taken Snape off-guard. Whatever it was that they would talk about, he was fully prepared and, as a result, perfectly calm. Her mask to the contrary, Meli could make no such claim for herself.

"Interesting little stunt you pulled last night," Snape commented, leaning back against his desk. "Devised by the Gryffindors and planned out by the Slytherins, no doubt."

Meli's eyebrows were nearly to her hairline. "There seems to be little point in denial," she conceded. "How many points will we lose for this?"

Now Snape raised his eyebrows. "No denials," he observed. "Unexpected, but very impressive."

"What purpose would a denial serve, sir? You plainly know enough to render one pointless." She winced inwardly at that unfortunate unintentional pun.

"You know the penalties you could now face?" Snape asked, an odd quirk touching one corner of his mouth.

"We knew the penalties from the beginning, sir. That did not keep us from proceeding; we considered the potential benefits well worth it."

"And the benefits would be—?"

Meli smiled broadly. "Convincing a certain arrogant ass that he'd do well, first to stay away from us, and secondly to mind his own business."

"You considered aversion therapy an adequate motivation for the arrogant ass in question?"

"Pain is often the best teacher," she replied philosophically. "So how many points has Gryffindor lost?"

Snape smirked. "You seem quite convinced that I should punish you, Miss Stafford," he said. "Is that what you'd like?"

She shrugged. "I'd be lying if I said yes," she answered. "But we _were_ caught breaking the rules, and it _is_ customary to make rule-breakers pay."

Snape pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I'm a great admirer of sneak and stealth," he told her. "Particularly when the sneak in question gets away with whatever it is she's done."

"But I haven't gotten away with anything, sir," she pointed out. "You caught us."

"No," he corrected. "I _observed_ you. And I sincerely hope that Flint _has_ learned the lesson you sought to teach." He arched a sardonic eyebrow. "No points will be given to or taken away from either Gryffindor or Slytherin for the actions of the Skulkers last night. My appreciation of your art cancels out the penalty for the rules broken. Just be sure you're not seen next time—by _anyone_."

Meli felt her eyes widen, then forced them back to normal size. "Er . . . yes, sir."

"You may go, Miss Stafford."

"Yes, sir." She stood and shouldered her bag. "Ah, thank you, sir."

Crim, Sharpie, and Collum were once more waiting in the hallway when she emerged.

"Well?" Sharpie demanded.

She smiled slowly. "He called us sneaks," she said triumphantly. "He said he appreciates our art."

Crim's jaw had fallen open. "That's the highest compliment a teacher's ever given me!" she breathed.

"He's not angry?" Collum asked incredulously.

Meli shook her head. "But he warned us not to be caught or seen ever again."

Sharpie clapped her on the shoulder. "I've a feeling that you and Snape will become great friends in the future," he predicted exuberantly. "Quite a turnaround for a teacher who hated you, eh?"

"Don't you go getting ideas," Meli snapped. "I'm just grateful he didn't hand us over to Filch or Dumbledore."

Sharpie looked blankly at Crim. "I _did_ say friends, right?" he said. "That's got nothing to do with lovers, has it?"

Crim smirked. "I think Meli's right," she replied. "Don't get any ideas—one way or the other."

"Shut up, both of you," Meli ordered. "I've no intention of making friends with anyone—and a boyfriend of any description is out of the question, so shut your traps."

The thought of any boyfriend was enough to make her shudder; the thought of Snape as a boyfriend . . . well, that was just plain _wrong._


	21. The Pieces Fall Together

****

Part II: And Some Wad Eat That Want It

****

Chapter 21: The Pieces Fall Together

PRESENT: THE NIGHT OF DECEMBER 25

A familiar thick sleep pulled Meli far below the surface of the conscious world and into the realm of pain and memory. She seemed surrounded by pieces, fragments from countless different puzzles that somehow appeared to fit together into one picture. She snatched at images, hardly knowing why she chose some and rejected others, and slowly the myriad of faces and scenes melted away to one room, in which she stood to the side, observing herself as a separate person.

__

"How did it happen?" the other Meli asked.

"I think it's fairly obvious," Andrea Underhill replied, appearing out of nowhere with a rattlesnake coiled around her arm. "There was a Dark Mark over the building, and one carved into her arm. Who else would have done it?"

"But to be so brutal . . ."

Andrea snorted. "Well he is_ strong enough, you know," she countered. "And he _is_ a Death Eater. What else do you _really _know about him?"_

The observing Meli frowned, but the one she observed shook her head emphatically. "I'll never believe it of him," she asserted. "Not without solid evidence."

Andrea raised her eyebrows, smiled derisively—an expression Meli had never seen from her in life—and stepped back, making way for a body covered with a sheet. At first, the observing Meli expected to see Crim's blood-covered form when the sheet was pulled back, but instead both Melis were confronted by the corpse of John Golden, his chest cracked open, his skin peeled back, most of his organs lying separate from his body, and a knife still protruding from his heart.

The knife . . .

__

The Melis merged once more, and she found Andrea's eyes burning through her.

"Sstrange," the rattlesnake mused, sliding from Andrea's arm to coil next to the body and examine the knife. "Very like, wouldn't you ssay?"

Meli stared at the knife, at the odd, ornate handle, and the scene dissolved and changed. Suddenly she stood in Zarekael's quarters, a bloody shirt in hand. She turned to the potions worktable and saw, beside the bloody clothes piled there, a black knife harness with one sheath empty. The snake wrapped herself around one of the remaining knives. "Exsactly like," she hissed.

And when Meli turned from that sight, Elizabeth and little Meli Golden stood there, each with a tray of biscuits.

"Will you take one, auntie?" little Meli offered brightly. "They're very sweet!"

Meli Ebony lunged forward, flying out of the cloudy trap of sleep to land squarely on her feet beside her bed. She made it to the toilet just in time to empty her stomach until blood and bile flowed.

She did not go back to bed that night. The pieces fit together, yet she disassembled and reassembled the puzzle over and over, countless times, searching with growing desperation for any misfit, any loophole that could exonerate Zarekael; there was none. Rather, the pieces fit more and more tightly as others brought themselves to mind: Zarekael's reaction to her name at their first meeting, the fact that he must necessarily have been a recent Death Eater initiate when they first met, even his reaction to certain events and Snape's timing at changing subjects. Each time she put it together, the puzzle's pieces fit with greater and greater precision, and she wished fervently that she had never seen any of Zarekael's knives.

The only possible way out would be if Zarekael had lent out the knife . . . but only someone as strong as he could have broken open John's ribcage by hand. And Meli had known that a killing of that sort would have been an initiation, and that the utter brutality of it would have pleased Voldemort exceedingly. The Ministry had been horrified at this newest ruthless development in Voldemort's imagination; Meli now knew for certain what she had always suspected: it was the addition of a new, existing imagination, not a development of the original, that had produced such a scene.

She waited until five o'clock, never leaving her bedroom, then slowly dressed and brushed out her hair. She stared at her image in the bathroom mirror without truly seeing anything but the haunted blue of her eyes. Beside the mirror was affixed the parchment flat with "The Selkirk Grace" inscribed in red ink, the poetic accusation that had possibly inspired Zarekael's Christmas present to her—he would have seen it while trying on Muggle clothes. She read it again now, and the words penetrated once more to the deepest core of her heart, burning and twisting and lancing. Even Voldemort could not have planned this, for even he could never have foreseen that she would befriend a Death Eater.

_Some have friends they cannot trust, and some would trust that lack friends._

She closed her eyes to the words and left, slipping past Monty's sleeping form in the reading chair and quietly leaving her rooms. She flitted through the corridors, little more than a shadowy wraith, pausing only outside the Potions classroom. She took a deep breath, but she was resolved in her course and entered without hesitation.

As she had hoped, Snape was at work in his office, ignoring insomnia with the ready distraction of ungraded papers. He looked up mildly at her entrance, then looked more keenly at her as he became aware of her appearance and demeanor.

Meli had done her best to look as normal as possible, but there was no remedy for bloodshot eyes or anguished countenance.

Snape stood quickly, offering her a seat, which she declined. He gazed at her a moment longer, then said, "What's happened, Meli?"

She tried to steady her voice, but it refused, quavering and rasping like a paper castle assaulted by wind. "There is a—a conversation I must have with Zarekael," she replied haltingly. "Because of the nature of it . . . I believe it would be advisable to speak on neutral ground and . . . with a referee present."

His black eyes searched hers, but she could not withstand their intensity and looked away. Another moment passed before he answered, "I see."

"Sir—" She broke off, then started over. "_Severus_. Would you . . . would you be the referee?" She had to look at him now, to gauge his reaction.

Snape looked measuringly at her, calculations passing behind his eyes at a snitch's speed. At last, although the calculations continued, he nodded gravely. "I will," he replied. "And I'll offer my quarters as neutral territory, if you wish."

She made a motion more like a bow from the neck than an actual nod. "Thank you, sir."

"I will also speak to Zarekael," he continued carefully. "It might, perhaps, be easier for the invitation to come from the . . . referee."

She could not restrain the smile of relief that crossed her face, but she could, and did, truncate it. She despised emotionalism, and she knew she would experience far too much of it before day's end; there was no sense in getting started early. "Thank you, Severus."

He was extremely curious, she knew, and more than a little worried, but he would not press the issue; it was not yet a crisis point in his calculations.

"Will eight o'clock tonight suffice?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yes. Thank you." She forced another smile, then turned to leave. She felt his eyes on her, but she could offer them no more explanation. She could not yet bring herself to speak what she knew—and she would speak of that only to Zarekael first.

Whatever he had done, he deserved at least that much courtesy.

She skipped breakfast altogether and lunched in Hogsmeade. Dinner, however, was unavoidable and, consequently, unbearable. She stared at her plate throughout the meal, nerves sapping her appetite. Since Crimson's death, she had come to regard Snape and Zarekael her closest living friends. To confront—to _accuse_—one in front of the other was to risk losing at least one, possibly both, and it was a prospect she did not relish. It would be very difficult to be Snape's friend and at odds with Zarekael; the two were practically, and necessarily, inseparable.

_And some would trust but lack friends._

She occasionally forced down bites of food, but what she ate she could not say, nor was she even sure that she used the appropriate utensils to do so. She had the vague impression that Zarekael and Snape behaved even more normally than normal, as if in an attempt to compensate for her behavior.

As soon as the desserts cleared, taking with them their stomach-turning sugary reek, Meli excused herself and walked, as in a haze, to her rooms, approaching in a roundabout way in order to avoid Slytherin and the Potions corridor and people in general.

Monty slithered up to her as soon as she entered. "What'ss wrong?" he hissed. "You've been gone all day."

"Oh." She stepped past him and crossed to the anteroom to stare blankly at the bookshelf there. "I've had a lot on my mind today."

Monty came to a halt between her and the bookshelf, then drew himself up to look her in the eye. "Something's happened," he said flatly. "You can confide in me, you know."

"Not with this," she replied. "It would take too much explanation, and I'm not even sure I _could_ explain most of it. You know how my mind works—or doesn't, as the case may be."

Monty eyed her narrowly, then sank back to the floor. "Zsarekael'ss a Death Eater, issn't he."

Meli looked sharply at him. "**_What?!_** Where did _that_ come from?"

"I knew it," Monty said, almost smugly, but with a trace of sadness. "I wass right."

Anger and pain vied for control of Meli, but Monty's morose countenance won her over. "You're not right," she countered, trying to convince herself as much as him. "He's an honorable man and a . . . a true friend." She broke off, hearing her voice beginning to go raspy.

Deep understanding stirred in the python's eyes. "Ssso wass Sharpie," he said simply.

Meli turned her back on him. "I don't have time for this," she growled, then locked herself in her bedroom for the remaining ten minutes before she had to leave.

Had Monty currently been a human student at Hogwarts, she reflected darkly, he would have been a Gryffindor of the worst kind—on a par, probably, with the likes of Ron Weasley in terms of mouthiness and brazenness and sheer pigheaded stupidity.

He would also probably have been on a par with Dumbledore for perceptiveness.

Meli slipped out of her quarters without saying good-bye, but she was glad to see that Monty had retreated to the reading chair, from which he would not see her come in later. She had no desire to be greeted by him when she returned from her conversation with Zarekael, and he would most definitely not want to be anywhere near _her_ at that juncture, either.

She arrived at Snape's quarters soon after Zarekael did; both he and Snape were still in the entryway when she knocked. Although neither one showed it openly, she could tell that both were tensed and nervous, unsure what to think or how to react. Snape mechanically led the others into his main room, where three chairs were placed around a small table. One chair had its back directly to the fire; when Snape motioned for her to sit, Meli stepped to her left and chose this one. Zarekael took the chair to her right, which was situated with its back to the door; Snape wordlessly seated himself in the remaining chair.

And now came the most difficult task Meli had ever yet assigned herself. Standing up to Voldemort as a child had been nothing to this, and to make matters worse, only she could begin this conversation, for neither of the others present could know what it was about.

She cleared her throat and looked down at her hands, which were folded tightly in her lap. Her body had gone rigid; she could not relax.

"Zarekael," she began slowly, glad in spite of herself that her tone was more or less even, "when I was in your rooms last month for a . . . certain memorable conversation . . . I noticed a harness on your worktable." She forced herself to look up. Though she could not meet his eye, she must see his physical reaction. So far he only looked puzzled. "The knives in it looked . . . somehow familiar, but I couldn't think where I'd seen them before. Last night, though, the memory came."

She swallowed hard before continuing. "Last June, I was called in to identify a family killed by Death Eaters—the Golden family." Zarekael suddenly stiffened, and Meli's heart sank. She glanced to Snape and saw that he had gone deathly pale, but she forced herself to go on. "John Golden's body was found . . . with a knife through the heart. Its handle and the handles of those in your harness were virtually identical." She broke off, choking back a small sob, then pressed ahead, though with difficulty. "I need to know, Zarekael . . . was that your knife?"

He stood abruptly and turned his back to her, leaning heavily on the back of his chair with his left hand. His frame shook just visibly as he attempted to control his own reaction.

Again, Meli looked to Snape. He held one side of his face with his left hand, looking very ill indeed; she could find no help there. He knew. He _had_ known. Moreover, he, as Zarekael's sponsor, had most likely been present for it.

Her throat tightened as facts and fledgling control gave way to violent emotion. Before she could rationally consider her words, before she could stop them, they poured forth in a heart-rending plea: "Please tell me it wasn't you."

Zarekael turned again, anguish screaming in his eyes and tearing at his normally inexpressive face. "I'm sorry," he rasped. "I cannot. I did it—I killed them."

Emotion took fully over now as reason flew to the wind. Tears streamed from her eyes as those words enclosed her, echoing in her mind, taunting her in their constant repetition. Through the thick fog of words and words and words, she whispered one demand: "Why?"

The little reason left to her understood the calculation of the matter. Zarekael had infiltrated the Death Eaters, and Voldemort had assigned a test of loyalty—

Forget about reason. Her question was not to Zarekael the Death Eater but to Zarekael the man—to Ruthvencairn her friend.

He understood the meaning of her question; she read it clearly in his eyes. He shook his head mournfully. "I . . . have no answer," he replied.

"How—" A sob escaped, but she choked down the one on its heels, shaking her head and again seeking tonal control in a whisper. "So brutal . . . so ruthless."

Zarekael winced, and again shook his head. "I have no answer to that, either."

He turned to lean back against the chair, his right hand covering his face.

Meli buried her own face in her hands, whimpering and hiccuping as she fought back sobs. Dimly, she heard Zarekael excuse himself, and when the door closed behind him, she at last stopped fighting. Wracking sobs shook her body, doubling her over in the chair. No word escaped her, only incoherent wails, though she could not even tell for whose pain she wept. The anguish in Zarekael's eyes cut her nearly as deeply as the sight of the Goldens had done. Voldemort, the beast, the embodiment of all that was wrong and evil, had destroyed more than even he had intended. 

Voldemort, ultimately Voldemort, was to blame for everything that had happened this night, yet she and Zarekael were caught inescapably in the middle, and they were the two who must deal with the brutal facts of the matter.

__

No, ultimately Grandfather. It wasn't enough for him to punish me; he had to bring in others. He had to bring in Voldemort and the Death Eaters.

Her tears were nearly spent when she felt a warm touch. She looked up to find that Snape now stood beside her, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. His eyes, too, held anguish, but with it was mixed the same compassion that had shone in his eyes after her parents' deaths fourteen years before.

"I'm sorry, Severus," she said quietly. "I should go."

She stood, wiping her cheeks on the sleeves of her duster and drawing a deep, shuddering breath to quell the last of her sobs. She was surprised when Snape stepped around the table and offered her his arm.

"I'll see you home," he said simply.

She gratefully took his arm and walked slowly with him through the dungeons to her own rooms. There she turned and offered him a broken smile. "Thank you, Severus."

He bowed solemnly. "Good night, Meli."

Once the door closed behind her, she allowed her shoulders to slump in the utter defeat she felt but refused to show even to Snape. She stepped out of the entryway and past the reading chair, under which Monty was now curled and, to all appearances, asleep. In the anteroom, she once more stared at the bookshelf, then removed two items and opened her bedroom door. She checked once more to be sure that Monty was in plain sight and had not slipped in behind her, then entered her bedroom and closed, locked, and warded the door.

The door closed behind Meli, and Snape began walking again, at a much faster pace. He took another route out of the dungeons, one that would bring him out near the entrance to Dumbledore's office. Meli had been seen to, Zarekael would not want his—or anyone else's—company, and Dumbledore had to be told immediately what had transpired.

He did not slow his pace until he reached the statue guarding the entrance to the headmaster's office, and then it was only long enough to speak the password ("Werther's Originals"). He all but flew up the staircase to knock at the door, and he was only mildly surprised when Dumbledore answered in mid-knock.

"Come in, Severus," Dumbledore said calmly, though Snape reflected that his sweaty and alarmed appearance would not usually engender calmness in _anyone_.

He entered but did not sit, identifying suddenly with the distraught Meli who had stood in his own office not sixteen hours before. "Something has happened which I believe should be brought to your attention," Snape said without preamble.

Dumbledore's eyes held no twinkle, but his countenance was as open as ever. "Very well," he replied, watching Snape attentively. "Go on."

Snape forced himself to stick to facts. Facts were ever and always the most direct route to the point of a matter. Facts required no emotion—treated properly, facts _precluded_ emotion. "By means of bizarre and unfortunate coincidence, Meli has pieced together Zarekael's role in the deaths of the Golden family," he stated, not bothering to add that she must also by now suspect that he, too, had been involved and that, once she calmed down enough to consider that, there would be dire consequences. "Both she and Zarekael are understandably upset, and there may perhaps be some antipathy between them from now on." He paused, then forced himself to add what he did not want to admit, even to himself: "I doubt they will remain friends after this." _And I doubt she and I will remain friends, either,_ he added silently.

Dumbledore nodded slowly, mulling over the information. "How is Meli?" he asked after a moment.

"I've just seen her to her rooms," Snape replied. "She's somewhat calmer, no longer crying, but still very upset. I half-expect not to see her for a day or two."

"No," Dumbledore agreed. "She has a great deal of thinking to do, and she will not show herself until she is finished." He caught Snape's eye, and a touch of his twinkle returned. "And how are you, Severus?"

Snape blinked. "How am _I_?" he repeated.

"These events must certainly have taken a toll on you," Dumbledore said wryly. "How are you doing?"

Snape considered. He had not had, nor made, the time to think about it up until now. "Er, tired," he answered at last. "Rather . . . drained, actually."

Dumbledore smiled kindly. "I believe Meli and Zarekael will find some resolution and equilibrium," he said. "In the meantime, try to get some rest, Severus. You will do neither of them any good by wearing yourself down."

Before Snape had quite any idea how it happened, he found himself already on the stairs, heading back to the dungeons. When he fully noticed this, he stopped, suddenly dumbfounded. "_How_ does he do that?" he asked no one in particular, shaking his head in awe.

Meli did not emerge from her rooms for three days. Had anyone bothered to ask Monty (no one did, or even thought to), he would irritably have specified that she did not come out of her bedroom for that length of time. After the first twelve hours, he tired of tapping at the door and asking how she was doing, and he resigned himself instead to coiling up in her reading chair to wait.

Meli herself spent the time pondering the two things she had carried in with her: a small, flat box, and a new book. She ate only twice a day, when anonymous house elves delivered her meals and reminded her to eat. She turned over in her hands the book from Zarekael, running her fingers over its cover and turning its crisp new pages.

"To a Mouse" drew her eye almost immediately, its absurdity overcome this once by the applicability of a stanza to her predicament:

_But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,_

In proving foresight may be in vain;

The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men

Gang oft agley,

An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,

For promis'd joy!

Neither she nor Zarekael could ever have foreseen the events of this day, and neither could help but grieve at the result. Like mice turned up by a plow, they were caught and wounded and helpless to have prevented it.

Unlike that mouse, however, Meli had a choice that would not be dictated simply by instincts. The mouse would run away and hide, build a new nest elsewhere, and avoid the plow with greater vigilance. This Meli could do, and few would blame her—least of all Zarekael Ruthvencairn Sel Dar Jerrikhan. She knew beyond any doubt that he fully expected their friendship to be forever at an end.

But she had been endowed with capacities entirely foreign to field mice, and among these was the capacity to forgive. She had exercised that capacity as a child, when her grandfather had disowned her and when Voldemort had cursed her. This occasion was no different, except that, unlike either her grandfather or Voldemort, Zarekael was her friend. In her mind, he had not betrayed her; he had not even known her when he killed the Goldens, and he had been implicitly forced into the act. What remained to be forgiven, then, were his keeping from her the facts of it, and the brutality with which he had carried out the deed. 

His friendship was precious to her, as precious as the lives of each of her few friends, and she was resolved not to lose it easily. Voldemort had already destroyed many things so precious to her, both directly and indirectly; she would afford him no further ground.

Much closer to home, however, was the anguish and self-loathing in Zarekael's eyes. He hated himself for what he'd done, hated himself for keeping it from her, hated himself for everything pertaining to it, and he would be punishing himself to his dying day for the Goldens and for every other horrific act Voldemort required of him. If he lost her as a friend now, he would blame and hate himself for that, as well. She could do nothing to prevent the rest of it, but the choice to remain his friend or not was dependent on her.

In times like these, when desperate deeds were required of them all, even solitary creatures like Snape and Zarekael needed friends, and she had no intention of abandoning either of them. They needed her, just as she needed them.

Ruthvencairn needed her, just as she needed him.

Her tears had left before midnight struck that first night, and her thinking was completed by the second midnight after. She remained sequestered another day to compose herself and to prepare for a confrontation almost as nerve-wracking as the last; she would not emerge until she could look either Zarekael or Snape squarely in the eye without accusation.

Meli awoke at four in the morning on the fourth day and made her final preparatory choice.

She picked up the small, white box and opened it for the first time since Christmas Day, fingering again the silver ring and its black stone. A reminder, Snape had called it, a reminder that there were friends Voldemort could not take from her, friends who were willing to risk their lives for her and who would not be scared off or intimidated easily.

She could do no less for them.

Slowly, Meli slid the ring onto her right ring finger and started a new chapter of her life.

She tried Zarekael's rooms first, but he didn't answer the door. He was in neither the Potions room nor Snape's office. Thinking he might be wandering the halls upstairs, she climbed the steps to the ground floor, unsure of where to start looking but determined to find him if it was the last thing she did.

She rounded a corner and found herself suddenly face-to-face with Dumbledore. The headmaster smiled, and his eyes twinkled madly.

"If you're looking for Zarekael," he said mildly, "I believe you'll find him gathering potions ingredients in the Forbidden Forest."

Meli blinked, and Dumbledore was already past her, walking sedately down the corridor. She waited a moment, her brain temporarily frozen, then shook her head and said to the air, "_How_ does he do that?" The air having no suitable reply, she made her way to the castle's main entrance.

She stepped out into the fresh cold, ignoring the fact that her duster was not quite up to defending her against the wind. After three days in the warmth of her rooms, the shock of winter was a sudden and welcome relief. She started across the grounds, carefully navigating in the dark before dawn.

She was perhaps fifty feet from the edge of the Forest when Zarekael emerged, lantern and empty bag in hand. He saw her almost immediately, then stiffened and turned to re-enter the Forest.

"Zarekael!" she called out, breaking into a run. He stopped but did not turn to face her. She came within ten feet of him, close enough to speak without being overheard, though no one else would be out at this hour. "Ruthvencairn!"

He stiffened further, but he refused to turn or make any reply, even to that name. She closed the remaining distance between them and deliberately laid a hand flat on his back, just beneath his right shoulder blade. "Ruthvencairn," she said again.

Zarekael was silent a moment, then finally spoke, his tone flat and resigned. "What do you want with me?"

There was a specific meaning to that question, Meli knew, and her mind turned immediately to the task of translation. He believed she considered him a villain and a betrayer—what would she want with a betrayer?

No; that was the incorrect question. What had someone else wanted with him the last time he had been considered a betrayer?

A vision of his shredded back passed before her mind's eye, and she had her answer: He expected retribution and punishment. He expected revenge.

"I am _not_ Voldemort," she said firmly.

He whirled, the lantern light showing his face overrun by a mixture of astonishment and horror. "No," he breathed. "No, you most certainly are _not_."

She caught his eye and held it. "I'm not here to collect in blood."

"Why not?" he asked. His face had gone completely slack, his eyes dead, resigned. "It's your right—I fully expect it. I don't blame you."

"I'm not here to punish you," she stated. "Especially since you appear to be doing a more-than-adequate job of punishing yourself. _I_ don't blame _you_."

He smiled bitterly—the first true smile she had ever seen from him, and of such a dark intensity that she hoped never to see its like again. He thought she was mocking him.

Meli shook her head, then sought to clarify. "The man who stands here before me is not the man who killed the Goldens," she declared.

She had thought he could not unsettle her further, but he proved her terribly wrong. His lips parted, and a bitter laugh escaped, chilling her to the very soul as only a Dementor had done before.

"I'm happy that you think so, Ebony," he replied. "But I know they are one and the same."

Meli set her jaw, determined not to concede the point and forfeit this friendship. "No, Ruthvencairn," she countered. "I see that you hate what you did, that the memory of it brings you no pleasure, and that if there had been any way out, you'd have taken it. As far as I'm concerned, we remain friends—unless you determine otherwise."

She had left herself open, she knew, for him to present her with every single reason he could come up with to push her away. While she had prepared herself for what words might come, there had been no way either to anticipate or to prepare for what Zarekael actually did.

He drew himself up to his full height and stepped in close to her, staring down at her from cold eyes that had become suddenly menacing and detached. Without asking, without being told, she knew that she saw him as Elizabeth had last seen him, and it was by brute strength alone that she kept herself from taking a step backward. She would not be intimidated.

"The Goldens weren't the first, you know," he said quietly, a threat implicit in his tone. "Nor will they be the last."

Meli met his eyes with her most defiant, unwavering gaze. "I'm sure it was justified when you killed before," she replied, knowing herself for a blue-blooded Gryffindor even as she did. Such optimism was _not_ natural—or shouldn't be.

Zarekael seemed disturbingly relaxed in his current mode. He tilted his head to one side, looking at her much as a critic might examine a curious piece of artwork. There was no emotion evident, merely a detached interest in a _thing_ before him. Having so gauged her, he at last answered, "I turned in my own father for execution." He paused to examine her again, then further added, "I had the rest of my family killed."

Meli swallowed. That was a lot of guilty work to do before the age of eleven, but she knew he would not have made up what he said. Zarekael was many things—a spy, a killer, perhaps more—but a liar was not one of them. Beneath that terror-inspiring manner he now wore, however, there was a heart; she had seen it bared in anguish only a few days before.

"Do you regret it?" she asked.

A flicker of life zipped through his eyes, almost too fast to see, then disappeared once more. "Yes," he replied simply.

"Would you do it again?"

A trace of the former smile returned, touching Zarekael's face with something that bordered on mania. "_Oh_, yes," he answered, and her heart sank.

She had only one card left to play, and even it was probably stacked against her. A calculated outburst might somehow reach him, but it could just as easily glance off; in his present mood, she could not say what he might or mightn't do.

Carefully, praying that it would work, she lowered the emotional barriers she had partially constructed over the past three days and gave full vent to what lay behind them. A madness took over her own eyes and seeped into her voice, reducing it to a strangled rasp.

"I am _not_ losing you as a friend!" she all but screamed at him. "Voldemort's taken too much already; I am _not _letting him win!"

He remained unmoved and even crossed his arms. "Tell me, Ebony," he said coolly. "Are you truly interested in me as a friend, or am I a means to spite Voldemort?"

It was a moment before she could rein in her temper again, but a sudden epiphany greatly helped the process. _He's using every argument I would in his place,_ she realized, actually smiling faintly. _He's trying to do exactly what I've spent seventeen years of my own life doing._

Whether or not Zarekael was impressed or surprised by her rapid recovery, she could not tell, nor did she care. She crossed her own arms and once more held his eye. "Everything you're saying is calculated to push me away," she said, her voice suddenly deadly calm. "You're trying to protect me from yourself. I was your friend before any of this came to a head, Ruthvencairn. I was interested in you for who you are from the very first, and I still am. _Don't_ let this die; Voldemort has destroyed too much already."

"I'm not exactly innocent of that destruction," Zarekael countered, but she saw in his eyes that he had begun to return to himself.

He had finally edged himself onto a battlefield where she held the high ground. "There's a difference," she told him. "You have a conscience."

He regarded her quietly, measuringly, for a full minute. "Are you absolutely sure you want this?" he asked softly. "You know what I am. You know what I do. You know what I've done. I am not a . . . pleasant . . . man."

She looked steadily at him. "I wouldn't have come out here if I wasn't absolutely sure," she replied.

"Very well." He bowed, and when she could again see his face, his customary solemn expression had returned. "Then there is only one thing left to be said." He tilted his head inquiringly. "Breakfast?"

She blinked in surprise, then recovered and grinned. "All right."

Zarekael offered his arm, which she took, and they started back across the grounds, past Hagrid's cottage and toward the gates. Hours had passed since Meli had gotten up, and the rosy finger of dawn was even now touching the distant horizon. She and Zarekael walked in silence for several minutes, then he suddenly stopped, a slight furrow in his brow.

"Meli, how did you know where to find me?"

She smirked. "Dumbledore told me."

Zarekael shook his head wonderingly. "_How_ does he do that?"

"I have no idea."

Meli and Zarekael entered the Great Hall arm-in-arm, and only then did it occur to them that such was not normal behavior for either of them. The expressions on the faces of both teachers and students were a study in comedy and melodrama.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron stared in open-mouthed shock, while Ginny giggled furiously and Fred and George seemed determined to focus on anything but the entering twosome. Dumbledore's eyes were lost in twinkles, while McGonagall's had narrowed first in surprise and now in mild disapproval of what she obviously considered a poor joke. Trelawney—

Meli barely restrained a wicked grin. Trelawney had ventured down, risking a cloud over her Inner Eye, to join the company, and she was now doing a disturbingly good job of looking surreally pleased with herself.

Meli glanced up at Zarekael and caught his eye, and a silent, mischievous understanding passed between them. He escorted her to the empty chair beside Snape, pulled it out for her, and, when she was seated, pushed it in for her. He then sat next to her and quite composedly set to the task of eating his breakfast, his eyes narrowed in amusement. Meli herself was smiling broadly as she poured a glass of pumpkin juice.

Snape, for his part, had been as surprised as the rest, but he now watched the entire display with a knowing smirk, clearly amused and just as clearly (to Meli's eyes, at any rate) relieved that she and Zarekael remained friends.

_We'll hate ourselves for this tomorrow,_ she thought, taking a long drink of pumpkin juice. _But in the meantime, I find it highly amusing._

Meli could only revel in the others' shock for a brief time, however; there was still the matter of Severus Snape. She'd spent three days in thought, and though most of that thinking had been about Zarekael, Snape's actions had not escaped her consideration; indeed, they could not. The fact remained that he had known about, and probably at least witnessed, the Goldens' murders. She understood perfectly why he had never spoken a word about it to her, just as she comprehended the calculation behind Zarekael's brutality, but if the air between Snape and herself was ever to be cleared, something must be said about it as soon as possible, before the topic was forever closed. And the air must be cleared; Snape was more important to her than Zarekael probably ever would be.

Meli had long ago learned the skill of calculating the length of time it was taking someone to eat and pacing her own eating accordingly in order to finish shortly before the person in question did. It now proved a valuable skill, for it allowed her to finish eating and to excuse herself before Snape did, thereby preventing anyone from suspecting that she was following him. To all appearances, in fact, _he_ followed _her_ out of the Great Hall fully five minutes after she'd left. That she just happened to be waiting for him was entirely beside the point, and in any case, no one inside the Great Hall witnessed it anyway.

Judging by Snape's countenance, he would have been surprised _not_ to find her there. He halted directly in front of her, his features impassive.

Meli took a deep breath, then began. "Severus, we need to talk. When . . . would be a good time?"

He arched an eyebrow, but his face betrayed no signal of amusement. "We're on holiday, Meli," he reminded her mildly. "Any time will do. We can talk now, if you wish."

Neutral ground was still preferable to either one's territory; that ruled out Snape's and her offices and both sets of quarters, as well as the Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts classrooms. To talk in the corridor was absolutely out of the question, though, so they instead found a nearby empty classroom. Even that was not proof against any eavesdroppers who might happen by, so by unspoken agreement, both teachers put in place several silencing charms, effectively closing out the rest of the world. That done, they turned to face each other, Meli knowing that the first move lay with her and Snape waiting for her to make it.

She cleared her throat. "You can have no reasonable doubt what this is about," she said quietly.

Snape nodded, and she noticed that he was paler than usual.

"I've had three days to think," she continued, "and I have settled a number of things in my mind." She looked him directly in the eye. "I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Zarekael: I don't blame you—either of you."

Several things flashed through Snape's eyes then, most notably disbelief and a hint of amusement, probably at the thought of what Zarekael's response must have been.

"I don't blame you," she repeated, "but I have to know—were you a participant or an observer?"

Snape swallowed. "That depends largely on your definitions of those terms," he replied. "Even someone who stands by and watches, doing nothing, can be said to participate in a crime."

_Good point_, Meli thought wearily. _Who would ever have thought I'd have to make a distinction worthy of a barrister in a conversation with a friend?_ Aloud, she said, "Did you actively participate in what was done to the Goldens, or did you stand by and observe either the events or their aftermath?"

"It was my son's initiation, Meli," he answered.

Knowing her background as he did, he knew that it was all the answer she needed. It was _Zarekael's_ initiation; thus, Zarekael had been required to make all three kills and apply most, if not all, of the window dressing. However, Zarekael was Snape's son, and Snape, as his father and sponsor, would have been required to observe and supervise the proceedings.

As the supervisor, Snape must have spoken at least once, and though his face would have been masked, his voice was quite distinctive—and Elizabeth had met him before.

_If I don't ask now, I'll never be able to . . . but _should _I ask?_

Calculation was somehow bypassed, though, and before reaching a conclusion, she heard herself ask the question: "Did she—Elizabeth—recognize you?"

His eyes flew down and away from hers to fix on the floor to his right. "Yes," he all but whispered. "She did."

Remorse caught in her throat, and she had to resist the inexplicable impulse to touch his arm in a pseudo-comforting manner. "Severus, I'm sorry."

Up came his eyes, locking onto hers with a touch of confusion, the remnant trace of anger at himself, and a heavy dose of reproof directed at her. He had gone in an instant from a confronted friend to a disapproving mentor. "Why should you be?" he demanded. "It is a perfectly just question. You're not the first to ask it, and I daresay you won't be the last."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry for dredging it up," she clarified.

"You have a right to know," he countered.

That statement opened, however temporarily, the opportunity for her to ask for further particulars, but she did not take advantage of it. Curious she might be, but she already knew more about the incident than she wanted to. The only other plausible option, then, was to change the subject.

"I've had both the chance and the motivation to think seriously on another matter," she said, after a short pause. She held up her right hand to show him the silver and black it now wore. "I've come to a decision."

Snape's mouth curved into a small smile. "I'm glad to see it," he replied.

There was nothing very fitting to say to that, nor did another topic readily present itself to her mind, so an awkward pause ensued. Finally, Meli cleared her throat uncertainly. "So . . . now what?"

Snape's smile broadened just a bit, but he had, as (nearly) always, a ready answer. "Is the invitation still open to go vandalize Father Christmas' sleigh?"

Meli stared at him a moment, then slowly smiled. "Christmas was five days ago, Severus," she reminded him. "We'd have to apparate to the North Pole to do it."

"But we'd have a marvelous head start for next year," he pointed out.

"And what about the hopper car of coal you'll doubtless receive as a reward?"

Snape arched his eyebrow. "There are any number of useful ways to dispose of _that_," he assured her.

Meli shook her head, laughing out loud. "I _shudder_ to think."


	22. Chasing Leads

****

Chapter 22: Chasing Leads

****

PRESENT: LATE JANUARY

It was nearly February before the trio had exhausted all of their research and formulated all of their theories, but no matter how they worked at it, nothing seemed quite to fit. That there was a connection (or several connections) was self-evident; the nature of that connection, however, eluded them.

Harry finally settled on a course of action, born more out of desperation than out of airtight logic. "We could just ask Ebony," he suggested as he, Ron, and Hermione walked to Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Hermione stopped at stared at him. "_Ask_ her?" she repeated incredulously.

"You don't honestly think she'd _tell_ us, do you?" Ron added.

Harry shrugged and set his jaw. "It's the best chance we've got at learning anything," he said firmly.

They waited until everyone else had left for Double Potions, then nervously, but resolutely, went up to the front of the room. Ebony looked up mildly at their approach, then waited until Harry spoke before making any further reaction.

"Er, Professor . . ." he began awkwardly.

She looked a little expectant. "Yes?"

"Um . . ." He looked to Ron, who merely shrugged, then to Hermione.

Hermione leaned bravely forward. "Do you mind if we ask a question or two about your seizures?"

Ebony's eyebrows disappeared at her hairline. "My, we _are_ Gryffindors, aren't we?" she murmured. One corner of her mouth turned up in a way that reminded Harry eerily of Snape. "All right," she said after a moment. "You may ask, but I can't promise that I'll answer your questions—I will most certainly not answer any of them to your satisfaction."

Hermione glanced at the others, then took a deep breath and asked, "How long have you been having them?"

Ebony looked amused. "I had my first seizure when I was ten," she replied coolly. "I stopped having them for awhile . . . sometime while I was a student at Hogwarts. The doctor thought I'd outgrown my epilepsy." She shrugged. "Apparently, he was wrong. I started having them again about a year and a half ago."

"But it's not epilepsy, is it?" Hermione pressed. "Your symptoms are all wrong, _and_ they correlate with times when Harry's scar burns."

"I will allow that Muggle medicine has its limitations," Ebony conceded. "As for Harry's scar often burning at the same time . . . to that I cannot speak."

"Do Professor Snape and Zarekael have anything to do with the seizures?" Harry asked quietly.

Ebony frowned, nonplused. "Why would either of them have anything to do with it?" she countered, confusion thick in her voice.

"It's just that when you've had a seizure," Harry explained, "one or both of them have been nearby."

Ebony stared at him, her eyes wide. "Oh, no, Harry," she breathed. "No, indeed. They _have_ been nearby for the seizures you've seen or heard about, but that was more coincidence than anything else. Professor Snape and Zarekael know about my condition, but it's beyond their ability to do much more than stay with me as friends. My condition is incurable, but they help as they can."

Harry swallowed. "Do you know what causes your . . . condition?"

"Yes," she replied darkly. "It's rather impossible for me not to know." She met each set of eyes before continuing. "But those who don't have to know should have no desire to know. Good parents will not make their children carry heavier bundles than they can bear; good teachers should do no less for their students. In this particular case, it's better to leave the mystery unsolved, and indeed, you cannot help but leave it so. The only others you could ask about it are Professor Snape and Zarekael, and"—she smirked—"I somehow doubt that you'll be eager to do that."

She evidently thought that the conversation was at an end, but the trio merely fell back and regrouped. Harry spoke first this time. "You were a Skulker, weren't you?" he asked.

Ebony favored him with a reptilian smile. "I believe you've known that for awhile," she replied. "Ever since a certain late-night expedition."

"Er, yes." He took a deep breath, but before he could continue, Ron jumped in with a similar question to the one Harry had planned, but with a phrasing that proved to be pure genius.

"Whatever happened to Dirk Pierce and . . ." He frowned. "The other one, I forget his name?"

At the mention of Pierce's name, Ebony's eyes widened and her lips whitened in a reflexive anger that, thankfully, was not directed at her questioner. She seemed to miss the second part of the inquiry entirely, though she soon had her countenance under control.

"Dirk Pierce had a . . . falling out . . . with the rest of us," she answered calmly..

_Rather an understatement, given that he _killed_ one of the rest of you,_ Harry thought.

As taken off-guard as she had been by Ron's question, Ebony was still fully in command of her faculties. She glanced over the trio's heads to look at the clock, then returned her gaze to them. "Were you hoping to make it to Double Potions on time?" she asked, almost innocently.

Hermione looked at her watch, then at the others. "We'd better go," she said.

Left with little choice in the matter, Harry and Ron followed her out of the room.

But they hadn't quite exhausted all of their resources, after all, as it turned out. Halfway through their mad dash to Potions, Ron abruptly stopped, slapping a hand to his forehead. "Fred and George!" he exclaimed.

Hermione frowned. "What about them?"

"Don't you remember? They told us as first years to stay away from Zarekael, and they acted like they'd had a nasty run-in with him."

"You think _they_ might be able to tell us something?" Harry asked skeptically as they started jogging again.

"Well, more than the yearbooks or Ebony, at any rate," Ron grumbled.

Harry nodded. "We can ask Hagrid, too," he said. "When I first ran into Zarekael on Diagon Alley, Hagrid told me to stay away from him, too; I'll bet he knows something." He shrugged. "He might even know something about the Skulkers, too—and Phamelia Marvolo."

"Yeah, but will he tell us?" Ron countered in a low voice as they entered the Potions room. "Remember how it was trying to pump him about the Philosopher's Stone?"

"But he'd never warned me to stay away from Snape," Harry whispered back, glancing furtively at Zarekael. They were, after all, talking about him and his father.

"Well, let's see what Fred and George have to say first," Ron suggested.

"Probably not much," Hermione warned. "They're remarkably silent about why they're scared of him."

They ran into a bit of a delay after Double Potions, though. Somehow all three of them managed to ruin their potions, all in different ways, all spectacularly, and they were asked to remain after to explain themselves to the instructor. Only Hermione noticed right off that this was the first day Neville had _not _ruined his potion—a piece which was soon fitted with others to show that a fifth party, not a student, was responsible for the state of all four potions in question.

Once the other students had all departed, the threesome gathered their bags and stood up to face Zarekael. The Potions apprentice regarded them coolly, then crossed his arms and met the eye of each one in turn. When he was assured of their full attention, he moved his left hand, and the classroom door closed, that sound followed shortly thereafter by a silencing charm.

Harry swallowed. Something other than potions snafus was about to be discussed—either that, or Zarekael was going to do something very unpleasant and didn't want anyone else to know about it.

After the silencing spell took effect, Zarekael paused a moment, then at last addressed them. "There are certain subjects that are best not pursued," he said softly. "And there are certain names that are best never dropped. Let me remind you that you are at Hogwarts, where every stone, every painting, every suit of armor, has ears—and the mouths accompanying those ears are not always to be trusted."

Hermione's expression had closed, but Ron and Harry looked defiantly back at him. Seeing this, Zarekael sighed, and with that expulsion of air, he seemed to shed his youth. His face was as unlined as ever . . . but he looked suddenly like a very weary old man, weighed down by many heavy years. "I know you won't listen to me anyway," he said resignedly. "But please, for more sakes than your own, have a care."

He made a small movement with his hand again, and the door opened, effectively dismissing them.

Hermione was right about one thing; they could get very little out of the twins. Zarekael had caught them doing something after hours, and he had reacted unkindly; more than that Fred and George would not say, except to repeat their earlier injunctions to leave him alone. When Ron told them about his, Harry's, and Hermione's suspicions about the Potions apprentice, however, the twins looked stunned.

"You're crazy," Fred declared. "Zarekael's got a nasty sense of humor when he's getting back at someone, but he's a decent sort."

"Besides," George put in, "he and Ebony are pals. Why would he put her through something like that—even _if_ he's the type, which he's not."

"That's what we're trying to figure out," Ron said ruefully.

"Well, I don't know why you'd expect _us_ to know anything," Fred told him acidly. "You'd have better luck trying to outthink the Skulkers."

"Not that we haven't tried," George confided. "But somehow we seem to keep getting caught."

"I think we need to plan better," Fred said thoughtfully.

They left the twins to think about planning, no better off than they had been in terms of a connection. Even Ron was beginning to suspect that Ebony had been right; maybe they were barking up the wrong tree after all.

"Do you still want to talk to Hagrid?" Hermione asked.

Harry shook his head. "We'll go and see him," he replied, "but I really don't think he'd have anything to say that we haven't already heard."

To their surprise, Hagrid did have new information, though it had nothing to do with Zarekael. Somehow or other the subject of strange health conditions came up in the conversation, and though Harry, Ron, and Hermione kept studiously to the subject of animal ailments, Hagrid himself brought up Ebony.

"Now, you talk about strange problems," he said. "I remember the firs' time Meli Ebony had one o' her seizures. She was a little 'un, I'll tell you; never thought such a small thing could scream s' loud." He shook his head sympathetically. "Usually came on at night, so I heard, and rattled 'er so bad she'd miss class for a day or two. Stopped sometime her third year, though, an' she went her last five years 'ere without another 'un."

"Her last five years?" Hermione echoed, her expression suddenly intent.

Hagrid nodded. "Don' know when they started up again, but it was after she left Hogwarts."

The teakettle whistled then, and when Hagrid returned with the tea, Hermione changed the subject. 

"Ebony was a Skulker, wasn't she?" she asked casually.

Hagrid nodded again, grinning. "That she was," he confirmed. "Bes' pranksters ever, though Fred and George are pretty good, too," he added hastily, with a glance at Ron. He shook his head. "Pity what happened to Crim, though—her an' Meli were the nicest o' the bunch."

"Crimson Fell?" Harry hedged.

"Yeh. Crim was prob'ly the only Slytherin nobody thought'd go bad." Hagrid sighed.

Hermione traded looks with the others, then, with a small shrug, decided to sally forth. "Did Crimson Fell have any friends besides the Skulkers while she was here?" she inquired.

Hagrid frowned thoughtfully. "Not really," he replied. "Mos' o' the Slytherins were afraid o' her, an' no one else trusted her not to truss 'em up." He suddenly started chuckling. "Don' think I'll ever forget what they did to old Flint," he chortled, laughing so hard that after a moment tears came to his eyes. "Poor Professor McGonagall near swallowed her teeth when she found 'im!"

Remembering the picture that had immortalized Anthony Flint, the threesome grinned along with him.

Once Hagrid had calmed down somewhat, Harry cleared his throat. "Was there another student here about that time?" he asked. "I don't know what House she'd be in, but her name was Phamelia Marvolo?"

"We think she might've been a friend of Crimson Fell's," Ron added.

Hagrid's brow furrowed, but he shook his head. "Only Marvolo I ever knew was Tom Riddle," he said darkly. "I'd remember if I met another 'un. And Crim's only friends as I know of were Sharpie and Meli—and her brother Collum, o' course."

On the way back to Gryffindor Tower, Hermione pulled Harry and Ron close enough to her that she could speak without being overheard.

"Ebony's seizures stopped when she was thirteen," Hermione said in a low voice. "She's twelve years older than us. And what happened when we were a year old?"

Ron drew a blank, but Harry inhaled sharply. "That's when Voldemort tried to kill me," he whispered. "You're saying that when Voldemort went away, so did Ebony's seizures."

"Snape and Zarekael don't have anything to do with it," Hermione concluded. "But since Snape taught here while Ebony was still having seizures before, he'd have noticed when they stopped, and I bet he put the pieces together. _That's _why Snape and Zarekael were so near at hand on Halloween, and that's why at least one of them turns up for the others."

"They're keeping an eye out for her," Harry said. "Just like she told us. And they have an idea when they might come on because they're Death Eaters."

"But what if Snape and Zarekael are carrying out You-Know-Who's orders?" Ron pointed out. "Maybe the seizures went away because You-Know-Who wasn't ordering Snape to do it anymore."

Hermione shook her head. "It doesn't make complete sense, though," she replied. "If Snape was the one doing it—or Zarekael, for that matter—Harry's scar wouldn't be hurting. I think it's a link between her and You-Know-Who."

"So what's the connection between Ebony and You-Know-Who, then?" Ron asked.

"Dunno," Hermione sighed.

"It's got to have something to do with when he's angry or hurting someone," Harry told them. "Every time she's had a seizure that we know about, my scar's burned, and Dumbledore says my scar burns when Voldemort's worked up."

"So maybe it's her version of a scar," Ron suggested.

Harry shuddered. "Then it looks like I got the better end of the deal."

"Well, it can't be _exactly_ the same," Hermione said. "If it was, You-Know-Who would have been defeated twice in a similar way, and we know _that_ didn't happen."

They were silent for a few minutes, then Ron cleared his throat uncertainly. "Do you suppose it's some sort of punishment?" he asked hesitantly.

"Punishment for what?" Hermione countered.

Ron looked pained. "For running away or disloyalty or something," he replied. "Maybe . . . maybe she's a . . . a runaway Death Eater." He gulped and regarded the others with wide eyes.

"She's too young, Ron," Hermione pointed out. "She was thirteen when the seizures _stopped_."

"Still," he said, pulling at his collar as if it choked him. "It's not a happy thought that she's on the run from You-Know-Who. And I'm starting to wonder if _she_ isn't Phamelia Marvolo. If she's on the run, it'd explain why she changed her name."

"But if she's Phamelia Marvolo, that means she could be related—" Hermione broke off, swallowing hard. "This really doesn't look good."

Harry wished that he could think of something reassuring to say to that, but he didn't have enough information for an outright denial. "Well, I don't think it's anything we'll ever find out about," he murmured. "Ebony's the only one we _could_ talk to about that, and she's made it pretty clear it's no good to ask."

"A mystery we can't solve," Ron mused. "I don't think we've had one of those yet."

"It was only a matter of time," Hermione said numbly. "And this is the first one I really think we _ought_ to drop."


	23. Phamelia

****

Chapter 23: Phamelia

****

10 MAY 1979, BEFORE FIRST YEAR

Phamelia's grandfather kept many house elves. She would learn much later that this was a sign of affluence, but all she knew for the moment was that they cooked and cleaned and could not grasp basic grammar if their lives depended upon it. The one assigned to clean her room and lay out her clothes was an uncommonly melancholy house elf named Chipper, who wore a ratty wash rag that looked as though it had passed through a wood-chipper and thus earned the elf her name. While most of the other house elves were annoyingly subservient, Chipper was more subtly so and carried about her an almost human air that seemed to Phamelia to bear a faint resemblance to her grandfather's manipulative manner.

Her grandfather had before always treated Phamelia kindly. He had never struck her, never been harsh with her, never deprived her of either basic needs or what she would later learn were luxuries. She had believed that he loved her, and indeed, she had every reason to love him, but now things were different. She had dared to reject publicly what he stood for, and he had responded with violent anger and boiling hatred.

She had no other confidante, and not knowing any better, she sought Chipper's help as a final act of desperation.

"Please, you've got to help me!" she whispered urgently. It was nearly a week after her defiance; the following night she was due to appear before Voldemort once more.

Chipper looked dolefully at the child's puffed and bruised face, at her split lip and her slashed arms, and nodded slowly. "Chipper _is_ here to help. Chipper is bringing potions and ice and biscuits from Master."

She nearly vomited at the mention of sweets. "No, Chipper. You've got to get me out of here!" she clarified. "Once I'm healed up, he'll hurt me again, and all the sweets in the world can't make up for that. Help me, _please_."

"Chipper isn't doing anything but healing you up," the house elf said stoutly. "Master says."

"Master's wrong!" Phamelia replied desperately. "Can't you see? What he's doing is _wrong_!"

Chipper set down her tray and started tending to her charge's wounds. "Chipper is not breaking faith with Master," she said firmly. "You isn't needing help if you isn't breaking faith with Master. If you is doing as he's saying, you isn't in trouble. If you's not in trouble, you isn't hurting. Chipper is a house elf," she added proudly. "Chipper is doing good work and no hurting."

"You _are_ hurting," the child snapped, batting the house elf away. "By not doing anything, you're making things worse."

"But Master is not hurting _Chipper_!" Chipper countered. "And if _Chipper_ is not hurting, Chipper is not caring!"

"He will kill me," Phamelia enunciated through her teeth.

Chipper calmly returned to the task at hand. "Then you isn't needing help when you's dead. And _Chipper_ is still alive and not hurting."

Phamelia had never tried either her strength or her temper, but now the latter flared, fueling the former, and before she quite understood her actions, she felt her arm hit something solid and saw Chipper fly and hit the wall. Both the house elf and the girl were on her feet almost at once, but when she saw that the selfish thing had survived, her anger resurged.

"There you are, you bloody thing!" she shouted. "Now you're hurting! Now you know how just _one_ of my bruises happened and how it feels. Do you care even a bit _now_?"

Chipper stared resentfully at her for a long moment, then took a dizzy step toward her. "You is not understanding how it is being for house elves, Mistress," she said. "We is loyal, and no changing that. Chipper is doing what she's told by Master, and he is telling Chipper to be telling him what you is saying. Chipper is a house elf, and Chipper is doing what he is telling." Chipper's normally resigned expression was broken now by a shrewd, mocking sneer. "Or is you killing Chipper to be keeping her quiet?"

_I am not Voldemort._

Even if she felt at all inclined to murder Chipper, which, in complete honesty, she did not, Phamelia had nowhere to go afterward, and they both knew it.

"Get out," she snarled. "But if I ever see you again, I _will_ kill you, no matter what the penalties, you miserable ugly tart!"

To judge by Chipper's countenance, she'd swallowed that lie hook, line, and sinker; she had heard such a threat before from one who truly meant it. She scurried away, not bothering to retrieve the tray.

Phamelia sank once more onto her bed, tears welling in her eyes. Faced with a trial, she had just proven herself no better than her grandfather. She had long since ceased to believe the myth of inherent human goodness that he had tried to teach her (his reasoning being that, if everyone was innately good, how could any human act be bad?), but somehow she had thought that she possessed _more_ goodness. Now, however, she had shown her true colors; she was as totally and utterly depraved and corrupt as he.

She thought no more of escape, nor even of survival. She cared very much whether or not he would kill her, though; indeed, she hoped he would. If she lived, she could only grow more and more fully into the corrupt being she was at her core, and that she did not want. Mere moments before, visions of heroic escapes had danced in her head; now she saw another kind of heroism: dying as a ten year-old and sparing the world her evil deeds as an adult.

Her grandfather did not kill her, but the beatings continued through that evening and most of the following day. The next night, he brought her back to the Death Eaters, who also did nothing at all to help her. So grave was her offense that not one dared to speak except for Voldemort, who himself administered her punishment. She had not challenged merely her grandfather's authority, but the Dark Lord's, as well, and he would never let her forget it . . . not while she lived, at any rate.

So dreadful was the physical pain of Voldemort's curse that she fell into a thick, black realm of unconsciousness. At some point, she felt that something had hooked onto her spine and was pulling her up, forward, away . . . but she thought it a dream until she awoke.

****

PRESENT: EARLY FEBRUARY

Meli never afterward could account for the odd premonition that played at her stomach and teased the short hairs on the back of her neck, but she was quite aware of it, try as she might to conceal that fact as she went about her business. It was rather early in the morning, and her first year Hufflepuffs were having a particularly difficult time with the tricky subject matter—that was her entire world, or should be.

The premonition's justification was not long in coming, however. In the middle of a sentence, Meli suddenly broke off, gritting her teeth to hold back a scream. She could see from the students' faces that she had gone rigid and pale, but no verbal inquiry reached her ears through the curtain of screams that now enveloped her. She risked opening her lips just far enough to gasp, "Get—help!", then curled and dropped as the Cruciatus was doubled.

She did not know how long she managed to hold out against the agony, but it continued to mount, indicating multiple victims, and at last grew so strong that the scream fighting for freedom at last overwhelmed her resistance and ripped free. It and its echoes joined the growing cacophony ringing in her ears, until she thought the chaos would drive her insane.

Krissy Weller fled through the corridors in search of someone—anyone. In her desperation, she would even have welcomed a run-in with Filch if he would only know how to help Professor Ebony. Krissy had no way of knowing what had happened to her teacher, but that she needed immediate help was abundantly clear.

She dashed around a corner, then experienced an abrupt check that sent her sprawling. She looked up, eyes wide, to find the one person she would rather _not_ have run into.

"Shouldn't you be in class, Miss Weller?" Professor Snape asked severely.

Krissy had to take a moment to seize a clear thought, but quickly blurted, "Professor Ebony told us to get help. She's on the floor, screaming!"

Before she had finished, Snape was already around the corner and out of sight. She scrambled to her feet and ran after him.

A solid voice somehow penetrated the cloud of screams, calling her name repeatedly and relentlessly. Meli forced her eyes to open, and before them knelt Severus Snape, concern etching lines in his face. He had pulled her away from her desk, and her students were busy moving back the front row of their desks, doubtless at his order.

The screams slowly faded, but she still twitched uncontrollably. "Severus," she whispered through her teeth. "Kill me. Please, kill me."

She had expected the flicker of shock and horror that flitted across his face, could almost have scripted the firm "No" with which he replied.

"_Please_, Severus. It's getting worse."

His eyes narrowed, but compassion touched them. "You know you don't really want to die," he murmured. "And you certainly don't want _me_ to kill you."

Meli closed her eyes and gave up. "Then take me to the hospital wing," she sighed.

Just as Snape moved to pick her up, a death shriek ripped through her ears, and a deadly curse put on another threw her into spasms again.

_Nooo!_ she screamed inwardly. This was a slow-acting curse, she could feel, and she surmised that at least some of the other torture victims would also be killed shortly. Snape would not remove her from the room in this condition during classes; he would not haul her, kicking and screaming, through the corridors to disrupt every class between here and the hospital wing.

Her hand closed on her wand, and an idea burst to life. She jerked it from her pocket, an uncontrolled spasm nearly flinging it from her hand, but she maintained enough control to aim it.

Snape must certainly have seen the look of mad desperation that took over her face, but he obviously had no idea what it meant.

"_Accio_ dictionary!" she gasped, then whipped her wand behind her head. Her _Dictionary of Dark Magical Creatures, Dark Magicians, and Other Assorted Dark Evilities_—a heavy volume comprising six thousand or more very thick pages—flew from the shelf and landed solidly on her head, striking all sight and sense of the world from her and plunging her into agony-wracked sleep.

Snape could scarcely believe that Meli had actually done it . . . but he could not blame her. Indeed, a man who had once stupefied himself to keep Voldemort from executing him could not talk at all, even had he been inclined to do so.

Before he could pick up Meli to take her to the hospital wing, however, the student he had dispatched to Madame Pomfrey returned.

"I r-ran into her in the hall," Derek Ablemore gasped. "She said . . . she can't come yet. Th-there's a—a problem . . . in the dungeons."

Snape narrowed his eyes in irritation. "Probably Potter," he bit out. "Very well. Thank you, Ablemore. I'll take her myself."

Ablemore nodded, then retreated and sank into a chair, still panting for breath. The other Hufflepuffs stared silently at Snape, plainly awaiting instructions. He considered briefly as he picked up Meli. Slytherins and Gryffindors most certainly could not be left to themselves; Hufflepuffs, however, would probably be diligent enough to await a teacher if he told them to.

Snape cleared his throat as he stood, Meli still twitching in his arms. "I will be leaving to take Professor Ebony to the hospital wing," he announced. "Until I return or the bell rings—whichever comes first—you are to remain here. Write a one scroll summary of the day's topic while you wait."

He received several nods of acknowledgment, then left as quickly as possible. Had Meli been conscious, she would probably have accused him of going soft . . . but there _were_ more important things than tormenting first years with extraneous homework.

Occasionally.

****

THE NIGHT OF 11 MAY 1979, BEFORE FIRST YEAR

She awoke to strange homey scents and a feeling of warmth that she had no recollection of ever having experienced. The hellish clearing and its dark inhabitants had faded to a carpeted room with a cheery fire and a ridiculously soft couch. She was bundled up in blankets on the couch, with no memory at all of how she had come to be there, nor any notion of where in the storybooks _there_ was.

"Where am I?"

The words were faint, devoid of strength, but the havoc they wreaked on her raw throat was tortuous.

"You are safe."

This response came from a wizened old man, clearly a wizard by his dress. She could not tell which was longer—his hair or his beard. He smiled kindly at her from beneath the latter. Something about him put her at ease in spite of herself.

"Permit me to introduce myself," the old man continued. "My name is Albus Dumbledore."

Her eyes widened. "He's terrified of you!" she blurted, forgetting the consequences for her throat.

Dumbledore looked very grim. "I've given him sufficient reason for it," he said.

She hesitated, then locked eyes with him. "Kill me," she pleaded. "_Please._"

Dumbledore regarded her thoughtfully. "Why do you want to die?" he asked at last.

"He'll kill anyone who protects me or befriends me," she replied, panic edging the words. "Every time he kills or tortures someone, I'll be tortured. Please, sir, kill me for my sake or for the sake of anyone who calls himself my friend, but please _just kill me!_"

Sadness touched Dumbledore's eyes. "If I kill you," he said gently, "Voldemort will have won."

"I can't bear it!" she hissed fiercely. "I stood up to him until the end, but I'm spent. I can't do anymore! I played tough, but it was only a bluff."

As if to emphasize her words, a great pain seized her body, burning, tearing, shredding every cell and wringing from her a hoarse scream. She could not tell how long it lasted, but her own ruined voice could not drown out the scream that crossed countless miles to haunt her. A grown man howled and shrieked like a tortured animal, burning his voice forever into her mind and taunting her with the knowledge that his pain was probably because of her.

The episode passed, and she lay there, trembling and exhausted, too tormented even to beg once more for death.

Dumbledore had not sat idle. Once the first spasms took her, he had moved away anything that might get in the way of flailing limbs, then he had retreated to the fireplace to retrieve a few articles. These he carried to her now.

"Take some tea," he urged. "It will do your throat some good, and it may help to calm you." He helped her to handle the cup, tipping it to her lips then away again. Next, he handed her a lump of something she had never before seen. It was brown and sticky, it reeked of sugar, and it started to melt the moment it touched her fingers. "Turkish Delight," Dumbledore explained, a twinkle in his eye. "Of no medicinal value whatsoever, but I find it to be comforting in times of trouble."

She forced herself not to recoil. "Am I to . . . eat it?"

Dumbledore smiled kindly. "Unless you would prefer it to melt in your hand," he replied. "Candy is often more enjoyable when eaten."

She gave him a small, solemn smile, then took a bite of the thing in her hand. It was almost overpoweringly sweet, but she politely chewed and swallowed until it was completely gone.

"I see you don't have much of a sweet tooth," Dumbledore observed.

"Er, no." She flushed. "He gave me candy to try and get me to enjoy something . . . unpleasant." A shudder that would not be checked whipped through her willowy frame. "I had a peppermint stick the first time I saw someone killed with a _Kedavra_ curse. The first time I witnessed a Sangriatus, it was a biscuit. I had my first lollipop watching a Cruciatus." She shuddered again. "I hate sweets."

Dumbledore smiled understandingly. "I apologize for introducing the subject so soon," he said.

"You couldn't have known," she countered. She paused now, looking searchingly at him. "Since you're not going to kill me, what am I to call you?"

His eyes twinkled again. "Professor Dumbledore will do," he replied. "And how shall I call you?"

Her eyes fell out of focus for a moment. "_He_ called me Phamelia," she murmured. She shook her head firmly. "I will never answer to that name again."

"You may leave it behind if you wish."

"I will," she stated solemnly. Her eyes abruptly refocused, zeroing in on Dumbledore. "Call 

me . . . Meli, then."

Dumbledore smiled again. "Very well, Meli."

Meli paused then as a dark thought resurfaced. "The man who was tortured just now," she said in a low voice. "It's because I got away, isn't it."

He measured her with his eyes, then slowly nodded once. "You have more friends than you know, Meli," he told her. "At least one was willing to undergo torture—even to risk his life—to see you freed. Friends yet in your future will, I daresay, be willing to lay their lives on the line to stand by you."

"I don't want them to risk their lives for me. I'd rather be the only one to suffer."

"You may one day meet someone who will challenge your resolve," Dumbledore said mildly.

She shook her head resolutely. "I will _not_ change my mind," she declared.

****

11 MAY 1985, SIXTH YEAR

"Six days 'til Crim's and my birthday," Collum announced, grinning broadly. "Going to get us something particularly splendid this year?"

Meli stared at him uncomprehendingly. Somehow she had lost track of the dates—if it was six days until the Fell twins' birthday, that made today May 11—

"Hey!" Collum waved a hand in front of her eyes. "You there, behind the Potions book! Are you awake?"

She blinked several times, then nodded slowly. "Sorry, my mind went elsewhere," she said, acutely aware of the ridiculous understatement in her words. "Yes, I've got something in mind . . . and _I_ think it's splendid, at least."

Collum's brow furrowed in concern. "You all right, Meli?"

She glanced at her watch, then smiled wanly. "Just tired," she lied. "It's nearly eleven—time I went to bed." She stood, closing her text and tucking it under one arm. "See you in the morning."

He stared at her as she left the common room, but he knew better than to ask anything further. Even Crim, Meli's best friend, had never been enlightened on the subject of May 11.

Meli was strangely torn about the night of May 11. She dreaded it because on that night she always relived the night six years before when Voldemort had placed on her the curse she would carry to his death. But in a strange, twisted way, she anticipated the dreams that passed through her mind, tantalizing her with partially comprehended faces and half-whispered names. Each year, one of these grew clearer: the face of her rescuer. She knew she had seen his full face unmasked somewhere, but only in dreams had she any hope of connecting those black, glittering eyes to their proper countenance. Things came together in dreams that didn't come together in waking. While she dreaded the terror of memory, she was desperate and anxious to identify her rescuer.

If she could discover his identity, she could track him down. If she could track him down, she could ask him why. She had forced herself to believe that her rescuer was a _he_, for if it was a _she_, she must be Tinúviel Everett, and that particular Death Eater could not be tracked down. Only the living could be found; only the living could answer questions; if only for that reason, her rescuer must be someone else.

These thoughts accompanied her as she lay in bed for some time, staring into the darkness around her. The dreams would come in their own time; desiring or dreading them would neither hasten nor slow their coming . . .

At last a thick sleep blanketed her, drawing her once more to a darkened forest clearing and a ring of masked figures lining the perimeter. Two black eyes met hers—glittering black eyes possessed of a determination which no longer puzzled her, but which still astounded. She had stared intently at him that night, inexplicably hoping to see through his mask, until everything she knew was washed away in a wave of—

**_PAIN_**

She fought it with a strength that grew each year she relived it. A red miasma flowed before her eyes, but she forced them to focus beyond it, to latch onto two black anchors . . .

The red cloud of phantom pain took her once more into the void of sleep . . . but at last she carried with her a face, and she knew the name that went with it.

She passed through much of the next day more dead than alive. The thick sleep was not restful, and the familiar recurring nightmare had been only the first of several that plagued her. Nevertheless, she clung tenaciously to the face that had finally revealed itself the night before, and in that she found some encouragement.

That encouragement was not enough to save her from clumsiness, however. Her hands refused to cooperate fully, and she succeeded, as a result, in destroying her cauldron in a spectacular explosion that sent the entire Potions class and Snape ducking for cover. Through the acrid, choking smoke of over-reactive and over-stimulated porcupine quill powder, Snape managed to gasp out a fifty point deduction from Gryffindor, and she was sorely tempted to use the cloud as cover for an escape. Crim highly approved of entertaining explosions, but Collum, who was much nearer at hand, highly _dis_approved of needless point deductions that had no spectacular prank attached to render them worthwhile.

She stayed, however, and spent the remainder of the period collecting the pieces of her cauldron and avoiding the looks of betrayal her fellow Gryffindors leveled at her.

When the bell rang, she dropped a last handful of pewter shards into her book bag, then straightened with a sigh. Crim offered an encouraging smile, then rolled her eyes toward the door, indicating that she would wait for Meli in the corridor. Collum pushed past Meli without a word, and Sharpie, with an eloquent shrug, chased after him.

Meli shouldered her bag, then stepped quietly to the front of the room.

"I apologize for the mess, sir," she said in a low voice. "I've made rather a larger one than usual."

Snape arched an eyebrow. "You _usually_ make messes?" he countered.

She looked down. "Well, not in Potions," she conceded. "But there have been some 

unfortunate . . . frequent . . . incidents in Herbology." She looked up briefly and quickly added, "But that's all right; Herbology's for poseurs anyway."

She felt his eyes rest on her, and suddenly she wanted nothing more than to dig a hole and bury herself alive. "You've lost sleep," he observed after a moment.

"Yes, sir," she replied. "Nightmares, sir."

She looked up to find him consulting a desk calendar. "May twelfth," he said. "Last year on May twelfth, you spilled a jar of monkshood into Fell's cauldron. Fortunately, he caught it before it could mess things up too badly. The year before, you put too much salamander skin in a youthening potion, resulting in a peculiar, though amusing, polka-dotted effect when Fell drank it. The year before _that_, your shrinking potion poisoned the rat we tested it on, though the unfortunate rodent also managed to turn into a fire-breathing scorpion before it stopped twitching. And finally, as a second year, you fell asleep while waiting for your potion to boil, with the result that it boiled _over_ into the flame and evaporated in a poisonous fume, necessitating a two-day evacuation of the dungeons." He raised his eyebrows. "It never occurred to me at the time, but perhaps I should have asked Professor Brewer about your commemoration of the day as a first year."

"I'm sorry, sir." Her eyes had fallen once more—not a common mannerism for her, and most certainly not a welcome one. "I have no excuse."

"Really."

She smiled bitterly, her eyes still on the stonework floor. "What would you have me say, sir?" she asked softly. "Is it truly an excuse that I happen to have nightmares one certain night every year?" She forced her eyes upward to meet his. They were toying with one another, and she knew it. Snape would never admit to what he knew, and she was beginning to wonder if she would ever admit that she knew he knew what he knew.

"Recurring dreams are often signals," Snape said. "Perhaps you should try to determine their purpose and cause, then address it. _Then_ if they keep haunting you, you will have an excuse."

"'Some hae meat and canna eat, and some wad eat that want it,'" she murmured, more to herself than to Snape. He was watching her curiously, she saw, but rather than explaining, she forced herself to continue with the task she had set for herself. "It was you, wasn't it, sir." She intentionally refrained from making it a true question.

He frowned slightly. "What was me?" he asked.

She pressed on before she lost her nerve. "It was you who pulled me out of there, who brought me to Dumbledore six years ago. It was you _he_ punished—whose screams I heard that night." She bit her lip. "Sir, I _don't_ know if the nightmares have any intended message, but I do know that every year, the face around those shining black eyes has gotten clearer, and last night I finally saw it. It was you." She swallowed, hard. "Thank you, sir. I don't know why you did it, and I wish I could repay you a bit better than by wreaking havoc in your classroom every May twelfth, but from the depths of my heart, thank you."

To look at his face, she probably could not have surprised him more if she had come into Double Potions wearing a clown costume and tap-dancing while singing "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean".

Snape was quiet for a long moment, clearly pondering what to say. He finally came to a decision: "I have half a mind to return fifty points to Gryffindor."

Meli slowly settled into something more closely resembling her normal demeanor, and after a moment of berating herself for losing control, replied dryly, "With all due respect, sir, please don't. It might damage your reputation."

He smirked. "Just for that remark, I won't."

"Thank you, sir."

Snape regarded her coolly, then slowly, deliberately . . . smiled. Meli felt at that moment that she might actually faint from shock. The Potions master held his smile for a full minute, long enough for Meli to go pale and place a hand on the worktable behind her to steady herself, then he resumed his customary dour expression.

"Someday, Miss Ebony," he said, "I may tell you just why I did what I did. In the meantime, however, if you must lose sleep over it, please limit your Potions episodes to those of a non-lethal variety."

Meli recovered enough to offer a sardonic smile and a nod of acknowledgment, then excused herself and did her best not to flee from the room.

****

4 MAY 1979, BEFORE FIRST YEAR

It was clear from the beginning that this was to be a very different kind of meeting. The entire inner circle had gathered before Voldemort arrived, and when he finally did appear, he was accompanied by a much smaller person, clad from head to toe in a heavy hooded cloak like the others, but unmasked.

"Welcome, my friends," Voldemort greeted them cordially. "I've brought with me someone very important, whom I would like you all to meet."

They remained both silent and uncertain, not at all sure how best to respond. Voldemort motioned to his companion, and the figure removed its hood, revealing the face of a young girl. Glossy black hair framed pale cheeks and contrasted sharply with blue eyes. She looked to be between eight and ten years old, but her self-composure was more consistent with that of a mature adult. She gazed unflinchingly at the motley band before her and betrayed no emotion whatsoever.

"My friends," Voldemort said again, "permit me to introduce to you my granddaughter Phamelia Marvolo." 

This introduction elicited some murmurs and a sound of subtle stirring from among the Death Eaters. Such a statement at this time and in this place could only mean one thing: Voldemort intended to set up his granddaughter as his heir to power. Phamelia, meanwhile, regarded them dispassionately, an expression of apathy beginning to take hold behind her eyes.

"Young though she may be," Voldemort continued, "I think that her time has come. She is ready to join us tonight."

At his words, Phamelia stiffened suddenly, darting a startled, though not at all fearful, glance up at him. He smiled reassuringly, but the look carried no warmth. "You need not perform any test tonight," he told her soothingly. "It is enough to pledge your loyalty before these witnesses here."

Now she met his eyes more easily. "Loyalty to what?" she asked softly, but no ear missed her words. "To whom?"

Voldemort's brow furrowed. "To me, of course," he replied. "To all that I stand for."

"I cannot do it," she stated unequivocally. "I _will_ not do it."

The Dark Lord's face paled somewhat, but he retained his composure. "Why not?" he inquired dangerously. "Nothing further is required of you just now."

"Because it's wrong," she answered, almost defiantly. "What you do and what you fight for are evil, and I will have no part in them."

A stunned silence ensued, during which Voldemort fought visibly for control of his reaction, and the Death Eaters braced themselves for what must surely come next.

At last, Voldemort found his voice. "Do you dare challenge me in front of all of these witnesses?"

Phamelia did not falter. "I challenge you before them," she affirmed calmly. "Before the whole world and God Himself, if it comes to that. What you ask of me is wrong, and I won't do it."

"Who told you it's wrong?" he demanded poisonously. "**_Who?!_**"

She paused, waiting until the echoes of his shout had faded to nothing, still looking at him in complete apathy and utter resolve. "No one had to teach me," she answered. "I've always known it."

That Voldemort had not expected anything like this was painfully clear to all present. Before the eyes of his followers, he had been challenged and reduced by a ten year-old child—a child, moreover, whom he had raised from birth. It was not expected, and it could not be allowed. He raised his wand, but even at that sight she did not shrink. _"Crucio!"_

Phamelia's screams filled the forest beyond the clearing in which the Death Eaters met. She writhed on the ground in agony, nearly choked by her cloak until, by accident or design, she broke its clasp and rolled free. Waist-length hair whipped around her, now covering her face, now parting to reveal flashing blue eyes—eyes that burned with pain, but which were strangely untouched by hatred, anger, or betrayal. This seemed only further to enrage her punisher, who hit her with another Cruciatus and another, until it seemed that the entire world was tainted by her screams. Yet not once did the word "mercy" escape her.

Voldemort finally gave up, snarling, "_Stupefy"_ and returning his attention to his followers. "Return in a week," he ordered venomously. "If she does not repent before you, you will see once and for all the penalty for defying me!"

She had fallen still, her head turned to one side, her eyes open and oddly innocent, an echo of torture still lingering in them. Though she could not have consciously caused them to do so, they unseeingly met and pierced through another set of eyes, this one black and glittering and staring at her from under an anonymous mask, behind which a stone had begun to warm and beat and melt into a heart once more.

__

To Headmaster Albus Dumbledore

Dear Sir,

Something has happened which I must bring immediately to your attention. I must meet with you as soon as possible. While care must be taken that we are not seen together, a midnight meeting in a pub is perhaps not the wisest course. I leave it to your wisdom and judgment, but it must be soon.

Severus Snape

__

Dear Severus,

I am thinking of touring Loch Tay in two days' time. It has been some time since we have spoken, and I wondered if you might be in that neighborhood. If so, perhaps we can catch up on all that has happened since your graduation. Have you at last found a suitably challenging job?

I shall look for you at Loch Tay. If you cannot make it, perhaps we may chat some other time.

Yours, etc.

Albus Dumbledore

PS Naturally, there will be Muggles about, so you may wish to dress accordingly. AD

Although necessity dictated that Snape dress like a Muggle, he could not bring himself to dress more than necessarily out of his ordinary tone. So it was that he arrived at Loch Tay dressed in a sensible long-sleeved shirt and trousers, both black. _I doubt Dumbledore would recognize me if I dressed in any other color anyway,_ he thought darkly.

Dumbledore, by predictable contrast, wore as little black as possible and was clad instead in as many different bright colors as he'd been able to lay his hands on. He was without his usual pointed hat, but he had done nothing to hide or shorten his unusually long beard and hair. He carried a road map in one hand and a tour book in the other, and Snape had to admit that, even without those cues, the average Muggle would write off such an extraordinary person as a tourist—for no one would ever think that someone dressed like that actually _belonged_ to some place.

Snape took a deep breath and steeled himself. Dumbledore was the last person on earth he wished to be around, for a whole host of reasons . . . but for one far more important reason, Dumbledore was the only one he could speak to. And he _had_ to speak to someone.

He took another deep breath, then crossed the street to join his former headmaster.

"Severus!" Dumbledore greeted him quietly. "And how are you?"

Snape raised his eyebrows. "How am I?" he repeated. _Really_, he thought sourly, _what kind of answer is he expecting to that? How am I _supposed_ to be?!_"Tired," he replied at last. "And you?"

"Very curious," Dumbledore answered, a twinkle in his eye. "Do you think Loch Tay has a monster in it?"

Snape stared at him. "I beg your pardon?" he said faintly.

Dumbledore smiled. "Well, Loch Ness has _its_ monster, you know. Have you ever wondered about Loch Tay?"

What _are you playing at?!_ "Er, no," Snape replied aloud. "I can't say that I have."

The other's smile widened. "Shall we row out in a boat to see what we can see?" he suggested.

Snape blinked. _You clever sneak . . . _ "Certainly."

Dumbledore did all of the rowing, and, old as he looked, he had them out in the center of the loch in almost no time. Once there, he put in place several silencing spells and an unfamiliar charm that surrounded the boat with mist, the better to conceal the two of them from prying eyes.

"And now, Severus," he said, putting away his wand and drawing from his pocket an odd little bottle. "I'm afraid I have to ask you to swallow a few drops of this."

It was a perfectly clear liquid, and Snape recognized it immediately as veritaserum. Dumbledore knew, then, or had guessed, about his association with Voldemort. As much as he hated to, he did as Dumbledore asked; had anyone else asked it of him, he would have refused.

They waited a moment for the potion to take effect, then Dumbledore nodded for him to begin. At that juncture, Snape came to the full realization that he really had no idea of _where_ to begin.

Dumbledore, perceiving the problem, smiled kindly. "Something happened three days ago, Severus," he stated. "Something which you have to make known."

"The Dark Lord has a granddaughter," Snape blurted, hardly knowing whence the words had come. "She's in terrible danger."

Dumbledore did not look surprised, but his smile faded. "In danger from whom?" he asked carefully.

_A logical question_, Snape thought. _He could think I'm trying to convince him to spare her from Aurors._ "From the Dark Lord himself," he answered miserably. "He attempted to initiate her as a Death Eater—prelude, I believe, to setting her up as his heir. She refused him in the most explicit possible terms."

Dumbledore seemed lost in thought. "She could not be very old," he murmured after a moment. "Desdemona would only have been . . . twenty-five by now."

"Desdemona?"

"Voldemort's daughter," Dumbledore explained. "Unless he . . . remarried . . . Voldemort only had one child."

Snape stared at him. "You _knew_ about this?"

Dumbledore was unusually grim. "I knew only of the existence of the child," he replied, "but I knew more about Desdemona. Her mother told me about her."

There was plainly a story there, but, beyond mild curiosity, Snape had no interest in Desdemona; it was her daughter's plight that had brought him here, and that must be addressed immediately.

"But what about Phamelia Marvolo?" he asked tensely.

"I think you had better tell me all that happened," Dumbledore answered. "Then a plan may be formulated."

Snape explained, as thoroughly and as quickly as possible, what had taken place at the last gathering, down to the details of Voldemort's rage and Phamelia's apathy. He did not neglect to mention the certainty of further punishment and the date Voldemort had set for it, though he did leave out details that would permit Aurors to divine the location of the meeting or the identities of any other Death Eaters.

Dumbledore considered his words carefully for several minutes, then looked Snape squarely in the eye. "To your knowledge," he said quietly, "is any part or all of this drama designed as a trap for anyone opposed to Voldemort?"

"No," Snape replied firmly.

"Then I will help you."

_He wants something . . ._ Snape set his jaw. "I have no intention of becoming a spy," he said flatly. "Once she's safe, I'm returning to his service." _He deserves to know that much, at least._

Dumbledore's eyes had saddened, but he merely nodded. "That is, of course, your decision." He looked thoughtfully at Snape for a long moment, then added, "But I have something for you to consider."

"I'm listening."

"Did you ever know a woman named Nienor Hawke?" Dumbledore asked. "Or a man named Julius Grinden?"

Snape frowned. "I've heard of Grinden," he replied slowly, "but I never knew him. I've never heard of Nienor Hawke."

"Nienor was a fine representative of Ravenclaw in her time at Hogwarts," Dumbledore said quietly. "She caught the eye of a promising young Slytherin named Tom Riddle." His eyes had locked with Snape's and would not release them. "She did not reciprocate his . . . affections . . . but he was determined to have her. One of his first acts as Voldemort was to place her under the Imperius. The rest you can probably guess."

Snape's throat tightened; it was all he could do to show no reaction.

"Nienor was permitted contact with their daughter Desdemona only under Voldemort's supervision," Dumbledore continued. "She battled the Imperius for years, until at last she came to herself. She contrived a way to escape and came to me for protection, hoping I could work out some way to help Desdemona. Nienor lived in constant terror of discovery, and she eventually killed herself. At the time, there was no way for me to find Desdemona, much less rescue her.

"She had perceived her mother's condition, though, and she had attributed it to Voldemort. She refused to serve him." Dumbledore's brow furrowed. "And here begins the part of the tale which I have had to piece together.

"One of the Death Eaters was a fiercely loyal but tragically inept young man by the name of Julius Grinden. Voldemort considered him a liability but would not simply toss him aside; Grinden's loyalty was too valuable to him. I believe that Grinden was given the . . . privilege . . . of having his way with his lord's daughter, the intended purpose being to produce a child. Once that purpose was served, Voldemort killed him because he was of no further use."

Dumbledore's eyes widened in emphasis. "Desdemona was found dead nearly eleven years ago." His voice hardened. "She had recently delivered a child, and the name 'Grinden' was branded across her shoulder. She was fourteen."

Snape's stomach churned, and he was suddenly very aware of the rocking motion of the boat. The ability to order life and death—that was power at its greatest, and Voldemort had a firm grip on it. It was admirable, a goal accomplished, a zenith reached . . . and yet Snape felt neither admiration nor jealousy. All he felt was sick to his stomach.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked when he at last held some mastery over his voice.

"If you are proud to serve such a master," Dumbledore said softly, "you now know the extent of his great exploits." He paused for effect, then continued, "But if the time ever comes when such service has lost its luster, you can be sure of my best help."

_I doubt that time will come,_ Snape thought, but when he opened his mouth to say so, the words would not form. Instead, inexplicably, he replied, "I'll keep it in mind."

_Veritaserum._

Dumbledore nodded gravely, then carefully outlined a plan. Snape listened intently, but part of his mind was distracted, fixated on a single word that taunted him, accusing him of lying to himself.

_Veritaserum . . ._

They gathered again a week later as ordered. How Phamelia Marvolo had found it in herself to stand in defiance of Voldemort they could not comprehend, and for that very reason they were unable to do it themselves. When the Dark Lord gave an order to jump, Phamelia might only offer him a one-finger salute, but the Death Eaters' only delay would be to ask how high.

Phamelia herself looked only a little worse than she had seven days previously; bruises dotted her face and neck, but the blue coals of her eyes burned as clearly as ever. Her expression still lacked any trace of hatred or anger, and her countenance remained entirely dispassionate.

Black eyes gazed steadily back at her, alive with purpose and determination. She felt their stare and met them briefly, seeming for the barest second to see through the mask to the face beyond, but her brow knit in puzzlement; she did not understand their message.

"Phamelia Marvolo," Voldemort said loudly and deliberately.

"Yes."

"Do you repent of your rebellion?"

Inexplicably, her eyes once more found the glittering black gaze. "In order to repent," she replied calmly, "one must first have done something wrong. I have not." She raised her eyes to the treetops.

An animalistic growl escaped from the Dark Lord's throat. "Do you choose to turn from this foolishness and swear fealty to me?"

"You know I don't."

"Then hear your sentence!" Voldemort turned dramatically to the Death Eaters. "Phamelia Marvolo is no longer under my protection," he pronounced. "From this day forth, until she dies, everyone close to her, every friend and protector, is under a sentence of death. Execute them, painfully, horribly, and in her sight if at all possible. If she begs any of you for death, leave her to live in her misery. This is her lifelong bane."

Phamelia made no visible reaction to these words. She seemed expectant, as if well aware that more and worse had yet to come.

Voldemort smiled now, and even the most stalwart of the Death Eaters quailed at the sight. It was not a kind or a pleasant smile, and it most certainly did not bode well for Phamelia.

"Tonight, Phamelia Marvolo shall also receive a curse which I myself have this week devised," Voldemort continued. "Unlike most curses, the effects of this one will never leave; once I pronounce it against her, she will carry it for the rest of her miserable life. Any time I use magic to torture or kill someone, she will experience a pain more intense and far more lingering than even a Cruciatus could cause, and she will hear clearly the victim's screams. It will not kill her, nor can she be reduced to a blissful vegetable state. She will remain ever cognizant of the pain and of impending pain."

"Oh, how perfectly diabolical," Phamelia said, sounding almost bored. "You'll never obtain my loyalty with threats, Voldemort. The more you punish me, the more strongly I shall rise up against you. You cannot win, and I will kill you one day, if I can."

In response, Voldemort slapped her hard across the face, then threw her roughly to the ground. She made no move to oppose him but lay still, staring apathetically up at him as he leveled his wand at her and began reciting a litany of Latin, with odd, unrecognizable words occasionally mixed in. It was a detailed and intricate spell, so much so that a countercurse must necessarily be impossible to devise.

At first, Phamelia was silent and still, but as the spell took hold, she began to whimper. She slowly rolled onto her side and curled up into a ball, and as Voldemort still continued, every muscle in her body tightened until it seemed that she must fall to pieces from this self-imposed pressure. Suddenly, as the litany crescendoed, she unwrapped herself and threw her head back in a soul-rending scream that continued to echo even after Phamelia had screamed herself hoarse.

The echoes slowly faded, and so did Voldemort's recitation. Phamelia lay still once more, unconscious.

"Only one who desires such pain should think of opposing me," Voldemort said, his voice deadly quiet. "Severus, keep watch over her. When she wakes, bring her to me." He waited until one Death Eater had taken a position of surveillance and all of the others had disapparated, then he kicked Phamelia soundly in the side and himself disapparated.

Severus Snape waited for a seeming eternity to be sure that he was alone with Phamelia. One of the Death Eaters lingered, her eyes fixed on the child, then, just before she disapparated, she looked to Snape, her gaze as unreadable as her mask. After a final glance at Phamelia, she, too, disapparated, and Snape, satisfied that he had at least a few minutes, he acted, slowly untangling from his robes a small object that he dared not touch or take hold of. With his wand, he levitated it over to Phamelia, then lowered it slowly onto the palm of one hand that had fallen open. As soon as she touched the tiny jewelry case, both she and it disappeared.

Now Snape took a deep breath and turned his wand on himself. There was only one way to ensure that Voldemort would not discover his part in this.

_"Stupefy."_

The entire world went black.

****

PRESENT: LATE FEBRUARY

Meli awoke in the hospital wing, Poppy hovering over her like a vengeful angel of healing and Snape in a chair off to the side, frowning over a stack of scrolls. There was a lump on her head the size of a duck's egg, but the throbbing through it was next to nothing compared with the familiar shooting pain that haunted the rest of her body.

"You're awake!" Poppy announced, drawing Snape's eyes upward.

_Thank you, Poppy. I wouldn't have known that otherwise,_ Meli thought irritably.

Poppy flitted around, picking up and setting down any number of things out of Meli's field of vision. After several minutes of this annoying activity, she returned, a bottle the size of a tea kettle in her hand.

"Now, I want you to drink this down," she directed. "It'll make you feel better."

Meli looked at the bottle, then at its bearer, a distinctly unimpressed expression on her face. "It'll make me have to use the bedpan five times before I'm through with it," she countered. "No, thanks. I'll take my chances with the pain."

Poppy seemed about to press the issue, but Snape cleared his throat, drawing her attention. "Why don't you let me try to convince her, Poppy?" he suggested smoothly. "At the moment, I think she regards you more as a threat than a friend."

Poppy looked suspiciously at him, but after a moment, she surrendered the bottle to him and left, sending Meli a narrow, warning glance on her way out.

Snape smirked. "Take a sip, Meli," he ordered. "Whether you drink all of it, at least drink some of it." He poured out a measure of the potion into the water glass on her bedside table, then held the glass out to her.

"Thanks," she said, her tone quite ungrateful. She took a sip, nearly spit it out again, but forced herself to swallow. "Do I want to ask what this is?" she gasped.

Snape's smirk deepened. "Given what you normally brew up to counter one of your seizures?" he replied. "It's no less frightful."

"It's got sugar in it," she growled. "I'd rather eat divinity."

He seemed dangerously close to smiling as he took back the glass and returned to his chair, obviously understanding that she had no desire to converse. He pulled out a quill and started to frown over the scrolls again, clearly not impressed with what he read on them.

The near-smile brought something else to mind from the odd half-dreams and memories that had haunted her during her apparently hours-long forced rest. What emboldened her now she could not say, but that something did so was self-evident. She turned her head to face Snape.

"Severus, do you mind if I distract you a moment?"

He looked up. "I would greatly appreciate a distraction from this deplorable analysis of wolfsbane potion," he replied.

Meli smiled faintly. "I don't know how welcome the distraction will prove to be, but I think I may safely promise a distraction, at least."

Snape eyed her closely and cautiously, but nodded slowly. "I see."

"I don't think I need remind you of the particulars of a conversation we had on May twelfth my sixth year here," she began slowly.

He apprehended her meaning immediately. "No," he said. "I remember it quite well."

"I've had eleven years to puzzle it out," she went on, "but I still can't come to a final conclusion. Why, Severus? Why, after seeing clearly the penalties of defying Voldemort only moments before, did you risk your life to rescue a girl you didn't know?"

Silence reigned as Snape looked measuringly at her. "There were several factors which contributed to my actions that night," he answered at last. "Many of which you cannot have guessed."

"So I gathered."

"You may or may not know that I had already begun to question my service to the Dark Lord at that point," Snape continued slowly. "Otherwise, your plight would have made no decisive impact on me. I questioned very strongly my own definitions and understanding of right and wrong, and I found them lacking."

One corner of his mouth quirked. "Once that foundation was laid, other factors were able to take hold. Your fearless conviction was a very powerful factor, for example. As small and young as you were, you dared to stand up and call him evil."

"It was a bluff," Meli said in a low voice. "I was quite thoroughly terrified."

"No," Snape corrected. "_We_ were quite thoroughly terrified. You, by contrast, had enough mastery of your terror to speak against him—something the rest of us had never imagined doing. It convicted me, I assure you.

"Another powerful motivator was seeing that he had no qualm about torturing you. You were his granddaughter and ward—his heir apparent, moreover—but he turned against you as swiftly and cruelly as he ever turned on his enemies." He pressed his lips into a hard, uncompromising line. "I realized at that point exactly that I was just as culpable because I stood by and let it happen."

Snape closed his eyes. "There is something very heart-rending about seeing a child in excruciating pain, Meli." His eyes opened again to lock with hers. "The destruction of innocence—the _punishment_ of innocence—is evil at its purest. Seeing that, I saw that there were lengths to which I could never go—lengths to which I had no desire to go. Furthermore, I could not stand by and allow it to continue."

"So when an opportunity next presented itself, you took me to Dumbledore."

"No." Snape shook his head. "I was more subtle—a Gryffindor might say more cowardly. I smuggled a portkey to the next meeting, then took advantage of the fact that I was ordered to guard you. I put the portkey in your hand, then stupefied myself to make it appear that I had been ambushed and you had been carried off."

"He punished you for failure, then, rather than betrayal."

Snape nodded. "I was not yet ready to leave his service," he said. "It was still some time before I turned and became a spy."

Meli was silent for awhile, not sure exactly what to say. After a few minutes, her eyes fell on her hands, one adorned by a smooth gold band with a white stone, the other by a woven silver band with a black stone. They contradicted each other; each was the other's antithesis. One spoke of solitude and betrayal; the other spoke of friendship and bravery.

"I don't think it was cowardly to be subtle," she said at last. From the corner of her eye, she saw Snape's brow furrow slightly. "A coward would have convinced himself that there was nothing he could do. You took the risk of contacting Dumbledore, and you certainly took a risk by having in your possession such a portkey, to say nothing of actually using it." She turned her head again and looked him squarely in the eye. "I don' t know what other Gryffindors might say," she admitted, "but I will never call you a coward."

Snape had no words of reply for this, but his eyes fixed keenly on her. Meli smiled solemnly, then raised her hands from the blanket, ignoring the pain the motion caused. Slowly, she took hold of Andrew's ring and drew it off for the first time in her life. 

"It is an insult to a brave man for me to remember him side by side with the man I use as an excuse for my own cowardice," she stated, dropping the ring to the floor. It fell with a metallic ping, but the sound seemed very far away, echoing surreally through years of fear and pain that seemed somehow to have separated from her. She had not ceased to be Meli Ebony, but she had changed, and she would not look back.


	24. A Meeting With Lucius

****

Part III: But We Hae Meat, and We Can Eat

****

Chapter 24: A Meeting With Lucius

On returning from the hospital wing, Meli found that it was time to brew more pain potions. She had enough for the recovery from her latest episode and perhaps one more, if it was mild. Unfortunately, there were never mild episodes anymore; Voldemort, as predicted, was a great deal more brutal this time around. 

To make matters worse, she had allowed her stock of certain ingredients to get dangerously low, and none of those could be obtained in either Hogsmeade or the Forbidden Forest. In fact, she knew of only one herbalist who carried all of them, and his shop was in London, on Diagon Alley. That in itself was not a problem; the problem lay rather in the _specific_ location of his shop. In going there, Meli would have to walk past Knockturn Alley, a place which, when circumstances permitted, she avoided at all cost.

It was not at all that she feared Knockturn Alley; indeed, her comfort level in that environment would disturb most, and might even draw the suspicious eyes of Aurors. She had gone there often enough as a child, however, that for better or worse, the place _could_ not bother her. What _did_ bother her were the inhabitants and patrons that hung about Knockturn Alley. Not all were Death Eaters, but none were savory, and all were practitioners of the Dark Arts. She was most wary of those who were not Death Eaters, for they were under no orders to protect her life, and it was pretty generally known that she was Hogwarts' Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

In the end, however, she was not willing to subject herself to a stay in the hospital wing under the over-zealous eye of Poppy Pomfrey, simply to spare herself an unpleasant but brief walk by Knockturn Alley once in a very great while.

So it was that, at her earliest convenience, Meli apparated to London with a shopping list in her pocket and a countenance of such dark irritation that people made way for her as she had seen them do only for such imposing figures as Snape and Zarekael. _While this is convenient and more than a little amusing,_ she thought, _I doubt it's any help to my already spotty reputation._

She made her way silently, however, resolving to pass Knockturn Alley and pretend that it wasn't there.

She would have succeeded in this willful self-delusion had someone emerging from that lane not run straight into her a bare second after her neck went cold.

Meli glared fiercely at the offender, and her mood showed no improvement when she recognized him. Their collision had slightly mussed his shoulder-length blond hair, but it had done nothing to throw into disarray his arrogant air.

"Watch your step!" he snapped, not yet recognizing her.

"Lucius," Meli replied through her teeth. "What a regrettable meeting. I hope you've been thoroughly miserable?"

He did a double-take, then narrowed his eyes. "There was a time when you called me Mr. Malfoy, brat," he said coldly.

"Such titles demonstrate respect or the pretension thereof," she retorted. "I am no longer a child and have no need for such pretensions."

"Nevertheless, Phamelia," Malfoy hissed, "you should have care when addressing your betters."

Meli remained unmoved. "You and your ilk are not my betters," she growled. "And as I told your murdering coward of a wife ten years ago, my name is _not_ Phamelia."

He was, as she'd hoped, angered. "How _dare_ you!"

"I state merely the facts of the matter," she answered calmly. "I had nothing to do with her choice to be either a coward or a murderess; I just observe the case." She smirked. "And as for my having care, Lucius, enlighten me: What are you going to do about it? Make me miserable? You can only do that if I allow myself to be miserable, and if only to spite you, I _won't_ allow it.

"Or will you torture me?" She laughed mockingly. "Even if no one were around to arrest you for it, you know quite well that the worst tormenting curse at your disposal is nothing to what I regularly go through.

"Or perhaps you'd prefer to kill me?" By now she was sneering openly at him. "That would be highly amusing. Even _if_ you had the gumption, you'd be a walking dead man; there's no way to keep Voldemort from finding out _you_ did it."

Malfoy was seething. His power over others lay in fear and intimidation, and she afforded him neither.

"You're pathetic," she spat. "Even if Voldemort falls and you survive, you will grovel forever in the shadow of wizards greater than yourself. Take your over-inflated superiority complex and go try to impress someone else; _I_ have a life, thanks." She pushed past him.

He at last found his tongue. "I _have_ made you miserable," he called softly after her. "_I'm_ the one who found the Goldens."

She turned around and rolled her eyes, using disdain to mask the anger that burned in her stomach. "You're not telling me anything I don't already know," she shot back. "And as for _you_ finding them—do you expect me to be impressed? Is that supposed to convince me that you're a force to be reckoned with? The actual killer's deeds were far more stunning, and I know the killer can't have been you. You have neither the stomach nor the guts to kill in such a way." She stepped in close to him, her eyes slitted like a pit viper's. "Whoever that person may be, you will grovel in his or her shadow as you grovel in Voldemort's now. You fancy yourself brutal, Lucius, but _you—are—nothing!_" So saying, she spun on her heel and left Malfoy to stare after her, the first traces of self-doubt mingling with a newfound fear of the child, now a woman, who had dared to defy his master.

Meli, for her part, neither faltered nor stopped until she arrived at the herbalist's shop. Once inside, she paused only long enough to draw a ragged breath, and then she presented her list to the shopkeeper.

She had done it; she had faced off against a loyal inner-circle Death Eater, had told him exactly what she thought of him (and his wife), and had walked away unscathed. Moreover, she had, in a strange and twisted way, stood up for Zarekael, and—highly ironically—given credit where credit was due, for something for which no decent person would wish to claim credit, while simultaneously denying Lucius Malfoy any possibility of victory.

_What a _thoroughly_ odd friendship,_ Meli thought wonderingly as she double-checked the herbalist's measures and handed over the necessary funds for purchase. _In defending him, I have no problem with pointing out to Malfoy that Zarekael killed one of my friends and her family—without even leaving a clue that I know he did it._ She carefully distributed her purchases in several pockets in her cloak and duster, then returned to the street. _I could be mistaken, but I don't think that's entirely normal._

Two days after her run-in with Lucius Malfoy, Meli received a surprise at breakfast.

Snape and Zarekael were already seated at the table when she arrived. They greeted her, then returned to their meals; Meli sat down beside Snape and reached for a pitcher of pumpkin juice, stopping briefly when she caught sight of a piece of parchment on her plate. It read:

__

Saw M. last night.

Beautiful.

SSZ

Meli carefully poured her pumpkin juice, set down the pitcher, and turned to Snape and Zarekael, barely restraining a smile. She pretended to look at her fingernails, then polished her knuckles and smirked. The display elicited knowing smirks from the other two, who then once more returned to the task of eating.

These actions had not gone unnoticed by others, however. As she took a sip of juice, she looked up to see Ron Weasley and Harry Potter staring back at her with wonder and more than a little worry.

_And Severus thought I was joking when I told him the students didn't believe he had a sense of humor,_ she mused, smiling slightly. _There lies the proof of my words._


	25. Disturbing Research

****

Chapter 25: Disturbing Research

****

PRESENT: LATE FEBRUARY

As part of her research into Dirk Pierce, Andrea needed to consult a number of sources only available at the British Ministry of Magic. Here she found that she had to pull rank and send off owls to her American superiors so that _they_ could pull rank, and after a three-day process of red tape and bureaucratic tripe, she was finally allowed to access a file containing the names of all of the arrested Death Eaters after Voldemort's fall. It boiled her blood, for she knew that any Death Eater who might have infiltrated the Ministry would have had plenty of time to find out that an Auror was opening the file. Perhaps nothing would come of it . . . but it could very easily prove deadly if that file contained information that could incriminate influential people today.

She had hoped to find information on Pierce's parents; young Death Eaters tended to be descendants of older Death Eaters. There was nothing on him or any of his relatives, however—not even someone who had escaped on an Imperius plea. He appeared indeed to be a classic, stereotypical case of a Slytherin gone bad entirely on his own.

There were other items of interest on that list, though: names that Andrea knew. The first (no surprise, based upon comments Meli had made) was Lucius Malfoy; the second was Severus Snape.

Andrea sat back in her chair and stared at the page before her. There was no way in the world that Meli would associate with a loyal Death Eater—flat-out _none_. And knowing as she did that Meli could sense Death Eaters, she knew that Meli would know that Snape was one. The only possible logical explanation, then, was that Snape was not loyal and that Meli had seen proof of it.

Disloyalty did not make a Dark Mark go away, however. Andrea had encountered similar brands before, and she knew that they could only be released by the controller. If Snape had not returned to Voldemort, the Dark Lord would be able to torture him via the Dark Mark.

Of course, his being disloyal would not preclude his returning as a spy.

_But Meli could be mistaken,_ a traitorous voice whispered in the back of her mind. Had she been anything but an Auror, Andrea might have been able to ignore that voice, but in her current position, she had to give it the benefit of the doubt and acknowledge its words as possibly true.

She closed the file and returned it to the Ministry clerk who had retrieved it for her. She had intended to go to Hogwarts anyway, but now she had a reason to go sooner rather than later; she had a potential rat to weed out.


	26. Tiptoes and Tapdances

****

Chapter 26: Tiptoes and Tap Dances

It was Snape's turn to host tea, and for the first time he hosted it in his rooms. Meli found it best to arrive a few minutes early, in hopes of composing herself before Zarekael's arrival; it had been little more than two months since Snape's rooms had been neutral ground for a painful confrontation.

Snape, perhaps thinking along similar lines, had rearranged the main room so that it was hardly recognizable as the same room. Had he not done so, Meli would never have seen the paperweights.

He had moved his desk from the far corner to the wall near the entryway, treating Meli to a sight of its flawless surface topped by writing implements, all arranged neatly and efficiently. And, off to the left of the inkwell, there sat two glass paperweights, each with a pewter animal frozen at its heart. In one there charged a large rampant lion; in the other stood a unicorn about half the lion's size.

"Why, Severus," Meli said, a brush of Puck touching her smile. "I never took you for the patriotic sort."

Snape smirked. "Those are Dumbledore's fault," he replied, darkly amused. "He is also not fond of predictable Christmas gifts."

Meli shrugged. "On the bright side, these _do _have some practical use."

An odd little glitter flickered across the Potions master's eyes. "Indeed," he said. "They may well come in quite handy before long."

_I don't think I'm meant to ask about that just now,_ Meli thought. Aloud, she replied, "I'm sure Dumbledore will be gratified to know it."

The tea that followed was to be the last peaceful tea that Snape, Zarekael, and Meli would share for the better part of a month. The very next day, something transpired which rather altered their routine, and not necessarily for the better.

Meli waited until the last of her students had filed out, then breathed an almost inaudible sigh of relief. It had been a trying day, but somehow she'd gotten through it. She slowly opened her satchel and began transferring books to it, glad that she could put her mind in neutral for the remainder of the afternoon and evening.

The sound of a throat clearing drew her eyes to the door, where a Muggle-clad American Auror stood smirking at her. Meli maintained her calm mask and smiled coolly. _Oh, **no**._ So much for putting her mind in neutral.

"Agent Hiller," she said. "My, how you _do_ get around. First London, now here. What brings you to this insignificant corner of the world?"

Andrea snorted as she entered the room and approached Meli's desk. "Make it Kimberly," she replied with a flippant wave of her hand. "The title's only for the benefit of peelers and cops." She arched a skeptical eyebrow. "And as for why I'm at Hogwarts, I think you're a pretty good guesser."

_Naturally. And, naturally, there's no way to warn either Severus or Zarekael that you're here._ Beads of sweat sprang up on Meli's back, but she gave no indication of nervousness in her expression. "Touring the countryside?" she suggested lightly. "Taking in the sights, particularly the old castles?"

Andrea smiled slightly. "Something like that." She raised expectant eyebrows. "So do I get to meet any of these famous teachers I've heard so much about?"

Zarekael taught Potions the last hour of the day, Meli knew. If she hoped to keep him out from under the Auror's eye until he'd had fair warning, she couldn't risk taking Andrea anywhere near that classroom until she was sure he'd cleared out.

_Best to stall . . . without making it look like I'm stalling, of course._

"Well," she said, after a moment of pretended thought, "Professor Flitwick should be close by. You'd love meeting him—he's very charming."

Andrea gave her a patient look. "Knowing your sense of humor, I don't even need to ask what he teaches," she sighed. "Charms, is it?"

Meli inclined her head to one side and smiled mischievously. "Admit it," she rejoined. "You miss me."

"It was still a bad pun," Andrea growled.

"I thought it quite witty myself." _Just keep on the topic of puns—_

"Actually," Andrea said, in quite a different tone of voice, "I was wondering if you could introduce me to the famous Potions master I've heard so much about."

_So much for that._ "Certainly." Meli glanced at her watch. "He should still be in his office," she continued smoothly. "You don't mind a stroll through the dungeons, I hope?"

Andrea smirked. "Not if you don't."

_Please, Zarekael, _please_ finish cleaning up early and be gone by the time we get there._

It was a sad fate that the more fervently Meli hoped for something, the more likely she was to receive its exact opposite. She was, therefore, disappointed but not really surprised to find that Zarekael was still in the Potions classroom when she and Andrea arrived.

"Hello, Meli," he said gravely as they approached him.

"Hello, Zarekael." Meli stopped at the edge of his personal space, Andrea a step behind her. It was best not to seem either too threatened or too threatening. "I'd like you to meet an old friend of mine," she went on. "This is Kimberly Hiller." She turned to Andrea and cringed inwardly. The Auror's eyes had widened, presumably in awe at Zarekael's size, but Meli knew that Andrea had already started a mental file on him and was in the process of labeling it "Probable Suspect". Meli cleared her throat. "Kimberly, this is my friend Zarekael. He's the Potions apprentice and part-time instructor."

Each of them murmured about what a pleasure it was to meet the other, but Zarekael, perhaps cognizant of Andrea's concealed scrutiny, had begun some guarded observation of his own. Meli did her best to maintain a casual façade, but the realization that she would have a _lot_ of explaining to do later—for both of them—made it difficult.

She was gladly distracted almost immediately by the sound of a door closing to her right. She glanced to the side and was relieved to find Snape standing just outside his office. He inclined his head politely.

"Hello, Meli," he greeted her. "Are you giving a tour?"

She smiled. "Naturally, Severus. The dungeons are far more interesting than the rest of the castle, so I always start here." She turned once more to Andrea. "Kimberly, you asked to meet the legendary Potions master. May I present to you Professor Severus Snape?"

"I don't know," Andrea replied, deadpan. "May you?"

That earned her a mock-glare. "Severus," Meli continued, "this highly entertaining individual is Kimberly Hiller, a companion from my misspent youth in America."

"A pleasure to meet you," Snape said dryly. His mouth quirked in amusement as he offered his hand.

"Likewise," Andrea replied, shaking the proffered hand. "I've heard a great deal about you."

Snape's eyes flicked briefly to Meli's as he answered, "No doubt."

"She and I had General Chemistry together," Meli explained airily. "She thought _that _ professor was a demanding genius until I told her about Potions at Hogwarts." She shrugged. "I don't know if she quite believed everything I told her, but"—she put on her best bad-liar-Gryffindor look—"you know me, sir. I _never_ misrepresent a case."

Snape's eyes narrowed with humor. "Then, naturally, you'll have told her about the time you blew up your cauldron," he said sedately.

"Er—"

Andrea laughed. "No, I haven't heard that one," she said. "Though I did hear about the time she gave her lab partner polka-dots and the time she poisoned the mouse—not to mention some of her more colorful Herbology episodes."

"Herbology episodes?" Zarekael echoed, his eyebrows climbing fractionally.

Meli looked blithely at him. "I prefer to think of them as presented evidence that Herbology is a silly class with little practical application to life whatsoever," she replied stiffly.

Andrea smirked. "She said the same thing about Gen Chem until someone put silver nitrate on all the dorm toilet seats."

"I haven't been similarly proven wrong when it comes to Herbology," Meli retorted calmly. "I still firmly believe it's for poseurs."

This declaration drew smirks from both Potions instructors, but Andrea looked at her narrowly for a moment, then cleared her throat and glanced at her watch. "Well, as amusing as the topic of Herbology is," she said, her manner suddenly cool, "I have a meeting in ten minutes, so I really must dash." She nodded first to Snape, then to Zarekael. "It was nice meeting both of you. I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other while I'm here."

Her back was to the other three when Snape and Zarekael belatedly reacted to her words by tensing just perceptibly. Even Meli breathed a silent sigh of relief at Andrea's departure.

Once the door had closed behind Andrea, Meli was suddenly and painfully aware of a glowering, towering shadow to her left.

"What was the meaning of that?" Zarekael demanded, his tone even but betraying more than a trace of stress.

Snape was rather more detached. "That, I assume, was your former roommate?"

Meli nodded, her shoulders falling slightly. "She knows enough to trust my instincts," she promised. "She'll believe me." _After a great deal of talking,_ she added silently, _but you really don't want to know that._

"All the same," Snape replied, "her demonstrated interest in both Zarekael and me does not bode well."

"She's an Auror," Zarekael observed hollowly. "Why would an American Auror come to Hogwarts?"

Meli frowned, darting a glance at Snape. "She's working on the Crimson Fell case," she replied. "Crim was an American citizen, so the American Aurors are running the investigation. Kimberly's come here to interview people who knew both Crim and Pierce so she can work up a profile—weren't you warned?"

Snape cleared his throat. "The timing of that information coming to light was rather inopportune," he said. "Other things leapt to the forefront almost immediately, and I forgot completely that Agent Hiller would be coming, much less that Zarekael had not been told."

It was true, Meli knew. Crim had died a week before Christmas, when students and teachers alike were caught up in a flurry of last-minute exams and papers. And on the day after Christmas, there had been the memorable confrontation about three other Death Eater murder victims, and by the time that fiasco had come to resolution, Snape could easily have forgotten about the probable upcoming visit of an Auror sometime in the next several months.

"Well, in any case, you know now," Meli sighed. "And don't worry about the scrutiny, Zarekael. When she and I first met, she had her wand pointed at my nose within five minutes. You both got off without that treatment, and on top of it, you've got someone to vouch for you. She's seen me identify Death Eaters before; she knows I can tell the difference between Death Eaters and non-Death Eaters without mistakes."

That was also true. She had known Pierce for a Death Eater before he'd pulled up his sleeve; her neck had gone cold as soon as he had entered her classroom. And on two separate occasions, Andrea had seen her identify a Death Eater from a distance of fifty feet or more. Her instincts were proven; she could sense both the Dark Mark and the genuineness or falseness of the loyalty behind it.

She only hoped that Andrea would remember that.

****

NOVEMBER 1986, FRESHMAN YEAR AT UNIVERSITY

Jenny had the worst timing of anyone Meli had ever known. She habitually came over to "hang out" just as Andrea was starting her homework, and she added to that the habit of being offended if Andrea wouldn't hang out with her just then. Why someone like Andrea put up with someone like Jenny was a mystery Meli never did solve, but she concluded that it must be some sort of charity arrangement.

One fateful Friday, when Andrea's car was in the repair shop, Jenny dropped in to beg a ride to Park Meadows. That Andrea had no car was entirely beside the point; Jenny wanted to go to the mall, and Andrea must take her. After ten minutes of fruitless arguing on the subject, Meli silenced Jenny by offering to drive. Andrea, perhaps suspecting that the actual destination might be a dark alley, and that only one person would return from it, offered to go along, as well.

Jenny was in favor of departing immediately, but Meli walked instead to the dresser, where she started to apply SPF 50 sunblock to her face, neck, and hands.

"_What_ are you doing?" Jenny demanded. "It's November, you psycho! You don't need sunscreen!"

Meli turned to look mildly at her. "I'm incredibly proud of my pasty-white complexion," she replied. "I never leave home without sunscreen." So saying, she returned to her task.

Jenny's life did not at all improve once they got into the car. The American Ministry of Magic would probably have gone into conniptions had they seen all of the subtle improvements Meli had made to the Muggle technology; Jenny just thought it was an all-around annoying car—a sentiment which the car (whom Meli had dubbed Puck) reciprocated.

For starters, the front passenger seat didn't like Jenny, who insisted on riding "shotgun". The instant she sat down, it turned hard, and it refused to adjust to a comfortable angle for her back. The seatbelt, once fastened (and that was an adventure in and of itself) tightened quite uncomfortably, and the passenger-side airbag positioned itself slightly off-kilter—just in case.

Meli ignored Jenny's problems; Andrea was hard-pressed not to laugh.

Jenny also had an annoying habit of fiddling with the radio, a habit about which Andrea had once complained. While Meli had never expected to chauffeur Jenny, she had taken into consideration that Jenny was not the only person who did it, and she had taken appropriate precautions.

Meli turned on the radio and set it to KBPI, a station of which she knew Jenny did not approve. In under thirty seconds, Jenny's hands were playing at the preset buttons and the tuning knob, but to no avail. No matter what she did, the station didn't change. She even tried turning the radio off, but BPI continued to blare.

"Can we change the station?" she at last asked.

Meli shrugged. "Sure." She hit a preset, and the station switched to KALC.

Jenny was a bit slow, but then, she was also a Muggle. "I just tried that!" she whined.

"Oh." Meli glanced at her with her best deadpan. "My car and I have an understanding—I'm the only one who's allowed to change the station."

"Yeah, right," Jenny grumbled, crossing her arms in a huff.

Andrea waited until Meli was trying to merge onto I-25 in the middle of rush hour, then called, "Hey, Meli, I'm tired of Alice. Could we put it back on BPI? Uncle Nasty's on."

"You know where the button is," Meli said between her teeth, then followed the comment with a stream of invectives as some idiot cut her off and another nearly broadsided her. Andrea leaned forward and hit the preset for KBPI, then sat back and grinned at the look on Jenny's face.

"Only Meli and people her car likes," she amended, for the Muggle's benefit.

Jenny was still huffy when they arrived at the mall. As what Meli suspected was revenge, she hauled Andrea and Meli from one end of the mall to another several times, shopping as inefficiently as possible. However, since the witches were in far better physical shape, Jenny's only accomplishment was to wear herself out.

At last they went to the food court, where Jenny tried—and failed—to convince Andrea to go get her dinner while she rested at a table. Hunger drove her to her feet, so she did eat, but she expended her own effort to do so.

Jenny returned and ate her fries in sullen silence, an arrangement which neither Meli nor Andrea had any notion of disturbing. Unfortunately, Jenny could not long remain quiet without the aid of some form of gag, and she soon found something about which to chatter.

"Oh, my gosh!" she exclaimed, staring over Meli's left shoulder. Meli looked up mildly, but made no answer. Jenny's eyes had fixed on something—someone, rather—and were following that person's progress slowly around the food court. "Is that Professor Wilson?"

The object of her scrutiny was now to Meli and Andrea's left. The latter turned to look; Meli, already miffed at Jenny, took a sip of Mountain Dew and ignored her.

"Where?" Andrea asked. "I don't see him."

"In the bright red suspenders," Jenny specified.

The Americanism took Meli completely off-guard; she spit her mouthful of Mountain Dew almost directly in Jenny's face before she could contain the reaction. "He's wearing _what_?!"

Both Americans turned to her, Andrea a bit surprised and highly amused, Jenny very surprised and becoming enraged as she mopped pop off of her face and formerly white shirt.

"I take it that's not what Brits call those things looped over your shoulders to hold your pants up," Andrea observed dryly.

"I assume you mean trousers," Meli replied faintly. "And no, they're called braces."

"You don't know what pants are?" Jenny said derisively.

"Apparently, you use the term to refer to trousers," Meli answered acidly. "In Britain, it refers to underwear."

"And suspenders?" Andrea prompted.

Meli grimaced and did her best to remove the psychologically damaging mental picture from her mind. "Er . . . suffice it to say that no one would be wearing them in evidence in such a public place . . . and I sincerely hope that Professor Wilson will not be wearing them at all—_ever._"

Andrea nodded. "Okay, good enough for me."

"You ruined my favorite shirt just for that," Jenny muttered. The two witches looked at each other, shrugged, and returned to their meal. The Muggle, however, had not nearly vented her spleen to an extent that she deemed necessary and proper, and so abandoned her fries and as-yet untouched hamburger to drown them in a chorus of wails about how poor and mistreated she was in a manner reminiscent of Austen's Mrs. Bennet.

Meli and Andrea, meanwhile, ate in silence, neither having anything witty to say that wasn't at Jenny's expense, and neither wanting to hear anything that wasn't witty. This silent agreement was threatened near the end of the meal by a very unwelcome occurrence.

For reasons unknown to herself, though she wondered idly if it wasn't some idiosyncratic training received from Tom Riddle, when neither fork nor knife was required, Meli had always eaten one-handed. She handled food with her right hand, while her left rested on her lap. This now proved unfortunate.

A young man she vaguely recognized from her General Chemistry class came over to their table in the food court. Jenny immediately stopped whining, her eyes wide with anticipation. Meli and Andrea merely looked up.

"Ah, hi," he said. "Meli, right? Meli Ebony?"

Meli nodded slowly. "Yes."

"Jake Caldwell," he introduced himself. "We're in Gen Chem together."

She nodded again, fervently hoping that he would ask her about a homework assignment.

"Um—" He faltered, and her heart sank. He had a chemistry question, all right, and it wasn't academic in nature. "Are you . . . are you doing anything after the game next Friday night?"

Andrea choked on a mouthful of sweet and sour pork. At Jake's panicked look, she swallowed, then gasped, "Szechuan beef. That ginger'll get you every time!" She coughed a few more times, until she was sure she wouldn't laugh, then attacked her fried rice with remarkable enthusiasm.

Meli raised her eyebrows at Jake, ignoring Andrea entirely for the moment. "I do have plans, as a matter of fact," she told him, raising her left hand to rest on the table. "But thank you for asking."

"Well, then Saturday, maybe?" Jake persisted.

She cleared her throat. "I'm afraid not." She used her left hand to tuck an imaginary lock of hair behind her ear, and this time he saw the ring. His face went red; he stammered an apology, then fled, evoking a villainous pity in Meli.

Jenny leaned forward accusingly. "Meli, do you have any idea who that _was_?" she hissed. "Jake Caldwell is—"

"Not interesting to me," Meli interrupted. "I'm sure he's a perfectly nice fellow, but I'm simply not interested in dating. Especially when I'm wearing another man's ring."

"You're fiancé's dead," Jenny snapped thoughtlessly. "I doubt he'll mind."

Andrea glared at her, but Meli, the only one at the table who knew the whole story of her faux engagement, shrugged. "What makes you think he's got anything to do with it?" she countered. "I really don't care if I ever date or marry, and my fiancé's not the reason. Thinking back, I doubt I'd ever have married him." _And, in fact, I wouldn't have_, she added silently.

"Oh, you don't like boys at all, then, is that it?"

Meli crossed her arms. "Oh, they're fine as friends, even if they are rather dense and piggish, but I can live in contented singleness for the rest of my life, thanks."

"You don't like boys," Jenny concluded. "Haven't you ever seen a boy you thought was hot?"

"Certainly," Meli replied. "Every boy I've ever seen who's had a sunburn."

Jenny gave her a withering look. "Have you ever thought a boy was good-looking?" she re-phrased through gritted teeth.

Meli caught Andrea's eye and sighed dramatically. "All right, then," she muttered. "Point one out to me, and I'll give you my honest opinion."

Jenny narrowed her eyes in concentration as she looked around the food court, obviously seeking out the most gorgeous male she could locate in the vicinity. She needn't have bothered; Meli was pretty sure that their aesthetic opinions were completely opposite.

"What about him?" Jenny asked at last, pointing across the room at a young man with black hair that came down in a widow's peak similar to Meli's. She looked obligingly over at him, then froze, her eyes locked first on him, then on the older man he was with. He glanced her direction, and that brief, passing eye contact was enough to make the back of her neck go cold.

"Very plain," she said woodenly. "A complete dog."

Jenny glared at her, then stood and stormed off to clear her tray.

Meli leaned over to Andrea. "They're Death Eaters," she hissed.

"Excuse me?"

"Eddie Munster," Meli clarified. "And the older fellow with him."

Andrea surveyed the twosome with slitted eyes. "You can't know every Death Eater by sight," she murmured.

"I don't have to," Meli replied. "I can sense them."

"We'll talk later," Andrea said, then returned to her food as Jenny came back.

"Think we could make another stop first?" Meli asked conversationally. "I need a new bumper sticker."

Jenny glared at her. "You're the driver," she spat. "It's not like I could jack your car and leave sooner, is it?"

"Not really, no." _Even if you _could_ get your hands on the keys . . ._

The stop was at a store that sold, among other things, sarcastic bumper stickers, and there Meli purchased a black sticker with a splash of red words declaring, "So Many Men—So Little Reason to Sleep With Any of Them!" This she applied immediately to her car's back bumper, in Jenny's full view. The Muggle girl glared ineffectively at her, but gave no other reaction.

The next stop was Jenny's dormitory, where the front passenger seat turned into an ejection seat in its eagerness to get rid of her. Rather than sending her out through the roof, it was courteous enough to dump her unceremoniously out the door, but the end result was about the same. The seat calmed down and had a considerable improvement in its attitude when Andrea moved up to sit in it.

They were silent all the way back to their dorm, where Meli applied a bit of judicious magic to remove the bumper sticker, maintaining silence until the door was closed, locked, and warded behind her and Andrea. At that juncture, Andrea turned to Meli, her eyes hard and her mouth grim.

"How did you know, Meli?" she asked. "You were right, you know, but they're American—not members of Voldemort's inner circle. How could you know?"

"I told you Andrea, I can sense them," Meli replied. "The back of my neck goes cold." She narrowed her eyes. "Now, how did _you_ know?"

Andrea swallowed. "The guy you called Eddie Munster went to Ariel Academy with me," she answered. "If he'd gone to Hogwarts, he'd've been in Slytherin for sure. His name's Damon Vlad. Everyone knew his father's a Death Eater . . . but old man Vlad got off with an Imperius plea, and in any case no one would mess with him." She shook her head. "I never believed him for a minute—he's a Vlad, and Vlad means vampire, which further means you're lucky if they're _just_ Death Eaters." She crossed her arms. "So tell me about this sense of yours. How is it you can sense a Death Eater at a hundred feet?"

"I don't know," Meli admitted. "It's been that way as long as I can remember."

Now her roommate's eyes widened to saucers. "You've been around Death Eaters as long as you can remember?" she choked out.

Meli bit her lip. She had known that she'd have to explain everything to Andrea, but now was hardly an ideal time for it. Nevertheless, it seemed that the time had come, ideal or not.

"I grew up around them," she said hollowly. "I told you my father's surname was Grinden . . . but I was never given it."

Andrea's mouth drew into a dangerous line. She turned and covered the room with silencing charms. "Spill it," she said between her teeth as she turned back to face her roommate.

"I don't know the full story," Meli answered slowly, "but as I understand it, my grandfather killed my parents as soon as they were no longer of use to them. He raised me to be loyal to him and to follow in his footsteps. He gave me his mother's surname—not even his own."

"And what particular name would that be?" Andrea demanded softly.

Meli swallowed again, hard. "Marvolo."

Andrea stood very still, seeming not even to breathe, for a very long time. At last, though, she slowly nodded, and Meli could almost see pieces falling into place in Andrea's head. "It all makes sense," she said. "The safeguards in your car, sensing Death Eaters, being a Parselmouth . . . It all fits." Her eyes riveted on Meli's. "So if you don't mind my asking, how is it that you don't have a Dark Mark?"

Meli cleared her throat and smiled sheepishly. "A large part of it would be that . . . um . . . I told him to shove it."

That explanation knocked the wind out of Andrea. "You told _You-Know-Who_ to shove it?!"

"Well, I was more polite than that."

"You told You-Know-Who to shove it." Andrea shook her head, flabbergasted.

"Oh, don't dignify his name by not speaking it," Meli growled. "He doesn't deserve such recognition. Just call him Voldemort and have done with it."

"What did he _do_, Meli?"

Now Meli smiled ruefully. "He took steps to ensure that my life would be a thoroughly miserable," she replied. "The Death Eaters are under orders to kill everyone that matters to me, and if Voldemort ever kills or tortures anyone using magic, I undergo a treatment—a seizure, the Muggles have charmingly named it—that makes the Cruciatus feel like a back rub." It was easy to joke about now, of course; she hadn't had a seizure in five years.

"How old were you?" Andrea asked. "You can't have been very old at all."

"I turned eleven a fortnight later," she replied.

"That son of a—"

"Believe me," Meli said, "he's been called that and worse numerous times." She shrugged. "But thanks to Harry Potter, Death Eater activity has dropped off and the curses have stopped altogether." She sobered. "Not that I expect it to last."

Andrea looked thoughtfully at her. "You really do think he's coming back."

Meli nodded. "I know it. Not yet . . . but soon."

"If I'm an Auror when he does, I'll rip him a new one or three," Andrea promised. "Just for you."

****

PRESENT: LATE FEBRUARY

After Andrea's meeting following the unwanted detour to the dungeons, Meli found her and offered a full tour of the rest of the school, which the Auror readily took her up on. Because of the possibility of their conversation being overheard by students and other faculty, they avoided any discussion that did not strictly pertain to the architecture and history of Hogwarts, much to Meli's relief.

While leading Andrea down the second floor corridor, Meli was only mildly surprised to see a rapidly growing puddle coming their way as they neared the girls' bathroom. The water seeped forth from that direction, signal of the resident ghost's displeasure at some new trifle.

"Leaky toilets?" Andrea speculated dryly.

"Worse," Meli replied sourly. "Moaning Myrtle. A pity she had to give up the ghost when she died; in my opinion, this school would improve considerably at her removal, but she's like a crabby relative—she'll be around forever."

There was an angry splash, and a wave of water missed Meli by bare inches. She looked calmly through the bathroom doorway to find the simpering crybaby in question hovering near the sinks and glaring at her.

"Poor Myrtle," she clucked, not at all pityingly. "What a shame that you can't justify your own pathetic existence except by making a bathroom uninhabitable." She brushed off her still-dry sleeves. "And incidentally, dear—you missed."

She ducked out of the way just in time for another miniature tsunami to sweep past, accompanied by a furious shriek from Myrtle.

"Ooh, if you weren't a teacher—!" the shallow ghost fumed, then disappeared back into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Meli snorted derisively, then turned back to Andrea. The Auror had left her to torment Myrtle, but had not fared so well as the tormentor; Meli found her busily wringing out her robes and doing her best to manage her hair. The crown of curls in question behaved properly only when held in place by the gel that was now dripping to the floor, leaving her hair to do as it pleased.

Andrea turned a baleful eye on her. "I don't suppose you could _warn_ me next time?" she growled.

Meli swallowed to cover a snicker. "I'll do my best," she promised.

They resumed their course down the corridor, Andrea irritably spelling away the last of the dampness on her robes with one hand and plastering down her unruly spring-curls with the other. Meli cleared her throat and tactfully changed the subject.

"Did they not have troublesome ghosts at Ariel Academy?" she inquired lightly.

"A few, but not as many as Hogwarts has." Andrea glared at the puddle underfoot. "The thing you had to watch out for at Ariel were the warning signs posted everywhere. There were things that somehow or other got bewitched when the school was first built, and the subsequent teachers either didn't know how to get rid of the oddities that resulted, or they didn't want to."

Meli arched an eyebrow. "For example?"

Andrea pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Well, the first well in the area had something go funny with its water, so later when Ariel added plumbing, we had faucets that'd talk to us when we brushed our teeth, and a few would scream if the water was too hot or too cold." She grinned. "But my favorite was the toilets."

"I'm afraid to ask."

"Like I said, there were warning signs posted everywhere to keep us from giving various things an excuse to misbehave."

"Right . . ." 

"And there were warnings up in all the stalls saying, 'Please do not flush paper towels. It causes the toilets to clog.'"

Meli gave her a blank look. "Andrea, the toilets at Ariel aren't the only ones that do that. They do that here, too; that's how Moaning Myrtle gets her spectacular puddles."

"No, the toilets didn't _become_ clogged," Andrea corrected. "They _clogged_."

"Is this a subtle nuance peculiar to the American butchery of the English language?" Meli sighed.

The Auror shrugged. "I don't know," she replied. "All I know is that the minute a sixth grader—uh, first year, I think you'd call 'em—flushed a paper towel in defiance of the signs, every single unoccupied toilet in the bathroom jumped up and started clog dancing."

Meli stared at her, a frightening combination of horror and merriment overtaking her face. "That's the most deplorable pun I think I have ever encountered," she stated, her tone stunned. "I wish I'd thought of it."

"Interesting guy, Zarekael," Andrea remarked later as she and Meli finished the tour with tea in the latter's rooms. "Friend of yours, you said?"

"That's right," Meli replied firmly.

"Which I take it means—"

"He's all right." Meli raised her eyebrows. "Believe me, he's all right."

"You're sure?"

Meli sighed and raised her wand. "_Accio_ teacup." Her blue and white cup floated to her hand. "Positive," she at last replied. "I'm as sure of Zarekael as I am of Severus."

Andrea crossed her arms. "And you're sure of him?" she countered.

"We've been through this before," Meli reminded her, with forced patience. "I'm not at liberty to tell you the precise why's and wherefores of it, but there is no way that he _could _be loyal to Voldemort." She went to take a sip of her tea, but there was none in her cup. "What the—?"

Andrea smirked and pointed to a puddle on the table. "Having a little trouble with your wand?" she asked innocently.

Meli muttered incoherent viciousness under her breath, then smiled sweetly at her friend. "It periodically goes on the fritz," she said calmly.

"I noticed that in college, too," Andrea recalled. "It seems to go in cycles, fluctuating between very easy and very hard to control. Did you ever consider having it looked at?"

"The wand works precisely as it should," Meli sighed. "It's rather an unusual one, according to Ollivander, but it chose me, so it's mine."

Andrea frowned. "What the heck did they put in the core?"

Meli arched an eyebrow. "You know, Andrea, it's very rude to ask questions you've already answered in the course of the conversation."

She watched as Andrea blinked several times, obviously reviewing what had been said. After a moment, though, the Auror's eyes widened to their limit as realization dawned. "It goes in cycles . . . _werewolf hair?_" she all but whispered.

"You can't tell everything about a person based solely upon first impressions," Meli told her quietly. "Not even yourself. I was convinced I would be put in Slytherin and end up following in the footsteps of a certain infamous ancestor when this wand chose me." She shrugged. "If not for my ability to sense Death Eaters, I might at first have mistaken Zarekael for one. But I assure you, Andrea, there is no truer man in Britain than either Zarekael Sel Dar Jerrikhan or Severus Snape."

"Okay." Andrea conceded the point, but her eyes were troubled. "And you're never wrong?"

John, Elizabeth, and little Meli flashed before her eyes, but she looked steadily past them to meet the Auror's gaze. "I haven't been yet," she replied. "More than that I can't reasonably say."

Andrea was silent a moment. At last she nodded, then said deliberately, "I trust you." Then her eyes hardened, and she added, "But if Zarekael does anything to betray your trust in him—if he's a Death Eater and tips his hand—I'm going to take him out."

"I know."

_Believe me, Andrea. I know._

****

AUGUST 1986, FRESHMAN YEAR AT UNIVERSITY

For the first time in her life, Meli settled in to live long-term among Muggles. Seven years at boarding school had taught her how to pack light, so it was the work of less than an hour to move into her new dormitory room. She had, naturally, left most of her incriminating possessions in the care of Professor Snape for the duration of her stay in America, but a few necessities had to come along, and she had added to the lot a new pet shortly after her arrival. She sincerely hoped that her American Muggle roommate would be able to adjust to said pet; Meli really didn't want to part with either.

There was also, of course, the matter of her car. She fervently hoped that her roommate wasn't the borrowing sort, because Meli had made a number of post-assembly modifications that would be sure to mystify and alarm any Muggle driver. Still, if they agreed on limits from the beginning, it shouldn't be too much of a problem.

She hoped.

As she finished that thought, the sound of heavy footsteps reached her ears, followed directly by the wiry figure of a girl with dark, curly hair entering the room. She carried a trunk much like Meli's, but with a degree of ease that might have implied magical assistance had she been at Hogwarts. This being a Muggle school, however, it was probable, however unlikely, that she must simply be a very strong Muggle.

The girl moved carefully to the bed, dropped her trunk unceremoniously on it, then turned and plopped down next to it. She saw Meli watching her, grinned, and stood again, extending a hand. "Andrea Underhill," she introduced herself.

"Pleased to meet you," Meli replied, shaking the proffered hand. "I'm Meli Ebony."

Andrea raised her eyebrows. "Judging by your accent, you came a little further than I did."

"London." It wasn't entirely true, but she had flown _out_ of London, so she didn't trouble herself to be more precise.

"Colorado Springs," Andrea said, smiling.

"Ah. A local." Colorado Springs was actually an hour and a half to the south, but compared with her, Andrea was most definitely a local.

Meli's pet chose that moment to announce her presence. Andrea nearly jumped through the ceiling as the snake bumped against the side of her glass cage with a loud, irritated hiss. "Dinner time," the snake prompted.

"Fine," Meli sighed, not even thinking that she was addressing the snake, not the Muggle. She turned toward the dresser, on top of which she'd left a mouse in a box—

And found a wand tip less than an inch from her nose. In the space of heartbeat, Andrea Underhill had drawn and aimed, and her eyes had gone from open and casual to hardened steel.

"You're a Parselmouth," the American observed coldly.

"And you're most definitely not a Muggle," Meli countered calmly, though inwardly she was cringing. What on earth were the odds?! She flicked her eyes to the side, then back. "You may find it expedient to close the corridor door before continuing this conversation."

Andrea's wand shifted for the barest second to close and ward the door, then returned to point at Meli's head before she could so much as blink—not that Meli had any intention of doing anything more dangerous than blinking.

"You're British," Andrea recalled. "Consequently from Hogwarts?"

"Yes." Meli would have preferred to nod, but she did not yet trust the other witch not to blow her head to smithereens if she made any movement.

"What House?"

Meli carefully kept her surprise from her face. This one had done her homework—an American Ravenclaw, if she'd ever met one. "I'm a Gryffindor," she replied evenly.

"What's your next most dominant House?"

Meli now resisted the urge to shrug. "It's probably a toss-up between Ravenclaw and Slytherin," she answered quietly. "I _am_ something of a sneak when it suits me, but I'm rather too brazen and _far_ too morally upright ever to fit into Slytherin House. My ambitions are academic in nature, and I've been told that I think more than a Gryffindor should do—consequently, brazenness aside, I could perhaps have been a half-hearted Ravenclaw." She narrowed her eyes. "And God help the mistaken fool who would try to place me in Hufflepuff," she added sardonically.

A trace of amusement touched Andrea's lips, but her wand never wavered. "I don't recognize the surname Ebony. Are you Muggle-born, then?"

"Muggle-adopted," Meli corrected. "I never knew my birth parents; I believe my father's surname was Grinden, but he died before I was born, and my mother died shortly thereafter."

"Grinden," Andrea murmured to herself, and Meli had the sudden impression that her roommate was a human computer, too smart even for Ravenclaw. "A mediocre wizarding family, no known extraordinary talents."

Meli held her silence, refusing to say anything that would drop further clues.

Fortunately, Andrea was perfectly capable of picking up the conversation. "Any ties to You-Know-Who?" she asked.

It was too much for even Meli's patience. "You call him that over here, too?" she snapped. "Oh, for heaven's sake, just call him Voldemort and have done with it!"

Andrea's eyes narrowed to slits. "If you don't have a problem with the _name_," she growled, "how do I know you don't have a problem with _him_?"

Meli clenched her jaw, then rolled up her sleeves. "See a Dark Mark?" she demanded. "Do you?"

For the first time, Andrea hesitated. "No," she admitted.

"Then kindly put your wand away until you see proof that you need it." Meli waited until the wand was once more stowed up Andrea's sleeve before continuing, "There is a tendency to fear something powerful which is also unknown, and Voldemort _is_ powerful." She smirked. "But, beneath it all, he is nothing more or less than a poseur."

A snort of surprised laughter escaped from Andrea. "_What?!_"

"Had he not become a Dark Lord," Meli said blithely, "I feel certain he would have gone on to university to major in Herbology. At his deepest core, underneath the bluster and the cruelty, the man is a pathetic poseur."

"I cannot believe you just called Y—Voldemort—a poseur," Andrea breathed.

"I had a friend who once called him a prick," Meli continued darkly. "And it's more accurate than calling him a moron. Unfortunately, he seems to be quite brilliant, or he would have ceased to be a problem long ago. But even someone with an above-average IQ can be a poseur."

Andrea shook her head. "And I suppose you'd tell him that, face-to-face?"

Meli smiled thinly. "You'd be surprised at what I would tell him face-to-face," she replied. _And _have_ told him face-to-face, come to that,_ she added silently.

"I'm _starving_ to death, you chattering Limey!" the snake hissed impatiently behind her. "Feed me already, will you?"

"Watch your mouth, you bloody fangless Yank!" Meli retorted, then arched an eyebrow at Andrea. "May I feed my pet now?" she asked calmly in English.

"Sure." Andrea darted a look at the pet in question. "Do I want to know where you picked up a prairie rattler?"

"Probably not," Meli replied retrieving the mouse. "I've removed her fangs, though, and put a spell on her to keep them from growing back.

"Ah." Andrea was plainly doing her best to carry on a natural conversation. "Sooo . . . have you named her yet?"

Meli smirked as she dropped the mouse into the cage. "Her name is Casita."

"Casita?" Andrea furrowed her brow. "I'm confused . . . That's Spanish for—"

"Isn't it an American television program—_Little House on the Prairie_?" Meli asked innocently.

Andrea's puzzlement melted slowly into disapproving amusement at the pun. "So you named your _prairie_ rattler 'Little House'," she groaned. "That's _terrible_!"

"Get used to it," Meli advised dryly. "I'm a master of bad puns. Should I ever need to replace Casita, I'm thinking of getting a boa constrictor and naming it Feather. What do you think?"

Andrea smirked. "You being a Brit, wouldn't it make more sense to get a python and name it Monty?"

"Don't think it hasn't occurred to me. Perhaps, in the interest of subtlety I should get a boonslang named Polly."

Andrea stared at her, then blinked, then assumed a deadpan expression that would impress even John Cleese. "You're sick and twisted," she declared.

Meli smiled coolly. "That's what happens when you splice together a Gryffindor, a Slytherin, and a Ravenclaw," she replied airily. "Count your blessings, Andrea—I'm sick and twisted, but I'm also more or less stable. Imagine if you tried to splice in some Hufflepuff characteristics, as well."

"Your life story would be written by Stephen King."

"Precisely."

They grinned at one another for a long moment before Andrea spoke again. "You know what, Meli?"

"What, Andrea?"

"It's going to be a very fun four years."

The trickster's gleam reappeared in Meli's eye. "Yes. Yes it is."


	27. The Tangled Web

****

Chapter 27: The Tangled Web

PRESENT: LATE FEBRUARY

Not surprisingly, Dumbledore called a faculty meeting after dinner that evening. Just as unsurprisingly, Andrea was also present. She had changed out of her pantsuit, which had practically screamed "Muggle law enforcement", and into the dark, dangerous robes associated worldwide with Aurors. She stood to one side in the faculty boardroom, silently observing everyone who entered, her mere presence enough to elicit gulps and furtive looks from some of the more nervous teachers. Hagrid, in particular, did not react well to the presence of an Auror—no surprise, given that he had spent three months enjoying the hospitality of both Aurors and Dementors in Azkaban. Most of the teachers, however, had long practice at appearing unflappable in all but the most trying situations, of which this was not one, and they put that skill to good use now.

Once everyone was seated, Dumbledore, who alone of the faculty remained standing, indicated Andrea with one hand. "I wish at this time to introduce to all of you Agent Kimberly Hiller," he said quietly. "She is one of the Aurors currently assigned to the investigation of Crimson Fell's murder."

That brief introduction sent an unpleasant stirring and murmuring through the ranks of teachers. Meli remained as still and silent as a stone in the midst of this river, however, as did, she noticed, Snape, Zarekael, McGonagall, Vector, and a few other stalwart individuals.

Dumbledore waited while the murmurs ran their course and died down, then he continued. "Agent Hiller will be asking questions of many of you during the next fortnight or so. Please cooperate with her in her efforts to bring Miss Fell's murderer to justice." He turned now to Andrea, clearly inviting her to speak.

Andrea nodded once, respectfully, then stepped forward. "There are only a few things I'll be asking about," she said, intentionally (Meli thought) thickening her American accent. As soon as she spoke, another brief stir went through the faculty. When it, too, faded, Andrea smiled wryly, then resumed. "We're attempting to put together profiles on both Crimson Fell and her murderer. Both were students here starting just over seventeen years ago, so I'll be speaking with those of you who taught and attended here during their time as students. If any of the rest of you have anything that would be helpful, though, I'd be glad to hear from you." She raised amused eyebrows, then added, "And yes, as you've doubtless noticed, I'm an American. The murderer we're pursuing killed an American citizen, so the British Ministry has graciously allowed American Aurors to conduct the investigation."

There were no questions for either her or Dumbledore, so the meeting was adjourned shortly thereafter. As Andrea moved across the room to join Meli, Dumbledore cleared his throat and called Snape and Zarekael over to him.

"It's fortunate that Agent Hiller's arrival necessitated the calling of a meeting," the headmaster said. "I need to speak with both of you about a complex potion. I hope you'll be able to brew it . . ."

Dumbledore's words faded as Meli led Andrea away, but inwardly she smiled fit to make a pit viper squirm. There had, in fact, been another meeting _before_ dinner between Dumbledore, Snape, Zarekael, and her, laying out a delicate but necessary cover for the two Death Eaters during the Auror's stay. Her presence would make it impossible for them to answer Voldemort's summons—which, due to the laying of groundwork for two unspecified missions, were becoming more and more frequent—without arousing suspicion, so a ready excuse that would not itself raise suspicion was needed. A complex potion that the school actually needed, requiring some ingredients to be added every hour on the hour and others to be added at irregular intervals, would cover for the Potions master and his apprentice needing to leave suddenly. However, since Andrea would doubtless check to see that such a potion was actually being brewed (and was actually needed), and since the collaboration of someone who knew the Auror well enough to put her off-scent would be invaluable, Meli had been brought in on the conspiracy. Her precise role was as yet undetermined, but it required her to behave naturally and calmly when situations might motivate her to act otherwise, and to keep an eye on the potion that Snape and Zarekael would be brewing, adding what needed adding when they were unable to see to it, without making it look like she had anything to do with it.

_What a tightrope we walk to protect from one another people who are fighting for the same cause_, she thought sadly. _The evil of the enemy is most clearly shown in the way he divides allies and pits them against each other._

AUGUST 1986, FRESHMAN YEAR AT UNIVERSITY

By dinner time that first day, Meli and Andrea had pretty well settled that they still had things to talk about that shouldn't be discussed in the cafeteria. Andrea was only too happy to suggest calling for pizza; Muggle cafeteria food was thoroughly infamous.

There followed a highly amusing episode (for Meli) as Andrea tried to figure out how to work the phone. After several abortive attempts at dialing off-campus, she turned coolly to Meli.

"I don't suppose that you, having been raised by Muggles, have any clue how to get an outside line on this dang thing?"

Meli suppressed a grin, but it was a near miss. "Am I to assume, then, that you didn't take Muggle Studies?"

"Take what?"

"I'll take that as confirmation." Meli took the proffered phone, glanced at the phone number, and nonchalantly dialed, taking care to hit 9 first.

The person who took her call had some difficulty adjusting to Meli's accent, which was more than a little frustrating, but after several minutes of talking, she successfully ordered a large mushroom pizza. She hung up, then turned to her roommate, not quite hiding a smirk.

"You want to know what I think?" Andrea said darkly.

"What do you think?"

"I think you're a smug little brat."

Meli took a bow as she deposited the phone in her roommate's hands. "Thank you for noticing." She raised her eyebrows. "Returning to the earlier topic . . . your school didn't offer Muggle Studies?"

Andrea stared at her a moment, shaking her head in wonderment. "Not by that name," she answered at last. "What you call Muggle Studies is probably what Ariel Academy dubbed Exterior Social Studies, and no, I didn't take it."

Meli wrinkled her nose. "'Exterior Social Studies'?"

Andrea smiled mirthlessly. "Yeah. It's a self-esteem thing," she replied sardonically. "They're worried it'll damage our self-esteem—especially those students living in the Muggle world—if we have classes whose names are markedly different from the ones in Muggle schools. You know, we'll feel inferior or weird or something like that. Muggles take Social Studies; hence, we take Exterior Social Studies. Now isn't that special?"

"I'm going to throw up."

"Try actually _going_ to that school for seven years," Andrea suggested grimly. "What you call Herbology probably answers to our Botany, but that might be a dialect difference; Herbology doesn't sound particularly abnormal. But in place of Potions, we took Natural Chemistry, and Fortune-Telling became—get this—Time Meteorology."

"We called it Divination," Meli told her. "We also called it incredibly stupid."

Andrea shrugged. "That, too."

_"Time Meteorology?"_ Meli mused incredulously. "Some sick muddlehead lay awake nights thinking these up, didn't he?"

"As near as I can tell."

"What about Arithmancy, Charms, Transfiguration?" Meli inquired. "Or Defense Against the Dark Arts?"

Andrea furrowed her brow. "I think Arithmancy sounds like it'd correspond to Integrated Meteorological Math," she said slowly.

Meli collapsed on her bed, laughing out loud. "That's terrible!" she hooted.

Andrea smiled and shrugged helplessly. "So what was I supposed to do about it?" she retorted. "I'd need explanations of Charms and Transfiguration to tell you what we called them." Her smile faded. "And we don't _have_ Defense Against the Dark Arts—or Self-Defense, as they called it."

Meli abruptly sobered. "You _what_?!" she demanded. "_Why?"_

The fire of long-standing anger smoldered in Andrea's eyes. "It teaches absolute values and seeks to impose what certain parties—Death Eaters and sympathizers—call Judeo-Christian morality, on the students. Since the Ministry funds the school, they successfully had it removed from the curricula of all the American schools of magic, on the grounds of separation of Church and State."

Meli stared at her. "You _must_ be joking."

"Don't I wish!" Andrea's smile was that of a person with no way out of a bind. "Thus the motivation for my aspirations."

"And to what do you aspire?" Meli asked.

"I'm majoring in Criminal Justice," Andrea replied, "then going to Blackwing University to become an Auror. And from Day One, I'm going to push to get Self-Defense put back into Ariel, Prospero, and Tres Brujas' required curricula. If no one thinks it's important, they won't bother to do it, and all it takes is a charismatic leader who also happens to be a Dark wizard . . ."

"Like Voldemort," Meli murmured. "Even those who wouldn't turn would be crippled, lacking the knowledge and skills to stand up to him."

Andrea nodded. "And . . . Voldemort . . . was dangerous enough in a country where everyone takes Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Meli shook her head slowly, memories of Voldemort's charisma and the Death Eaters' pursuits and capabilities dancing through her mind. "Those bureaucrats have no idea what they've done," she breathed.

"Maybe they're counting on help from Britain," Andrea muttered.

"Britain's got enough problems of its own," Meli said grimly. "And you can be sure that as soon as America's in over its head, Britain won't have anyone to spare."

"You think another Dark Lord's coming?"

Meli shook her head. "I don't know that we got rid of the last one."

Andrea's eyes narrowed. "I thought Harry Potter pretty well finished him off," she said.

"Defeated him, yes." Meli knew a death scream when she heard one; she'd heard quite enough in her day, courtesy of Voldemort. What she had heard that night had been something other. "But there are ways for a clever Dark wizard, which he is, to come back if he was not all the way killed."

"I very much hope you're wrong," Andrea said quietly.

Meli managed a weak smile. "So do I, Andrea." _For a whole host of reasons_.

PRESENT: LATE FEBRUARY

The following day, Meli arranged for Andrea to guest-speak in her Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, feeling that it would serve a dual useful purpose of showing the students that what they were learning was applicable to life and of keeping the Auror out of trouble. If she was visiting Meli's classes, she couldn't be stalking either Snape or Zarekael. Meli wasn't quite sure how to keep Andrea out of trouble for the rest of her visit, but she had planned day-to-day before and could do it again. Her old roommate was quite willing to visit the classes, counting it an honor to speak with students who had received necessary and desperately needed education that she had not received until entering the Auror training program at Blackwing.

Andrea, perceiving that a single-topic lecture might not adequately keep the students' attention, decided to use a question-answer format, inviting students to ask whatever was on their minds with the promise that she would answer as well as she could, if she was at liberty to do so. As a result, nearly every first-year class (with the sole exception of Ravenclaw) asked if she had ever faced down a hinkypunk and, if so, how she had defeated that fearsome foe.

Meli knew well in advance, and that without asking, that Andrea most looked forward to the fifth-year Gryffindors, among whom she would be able to catch a glimpse of the famous Harry Potter. She also suspected that the Auror hoped to evaluate the Boy Who Lived based upon what questions he did—or didn't—ask. That particular class period didn't go quite as foreseen, however.

The first hand raised was Hermione Granger's.

"Why isn't the Sangriatus Vomitus in the Vomitum family?" she asked without preamble. "You're vomiting blood, yes, but after all, you're still vomiting."

Andrea smiled as most of the students in the room went green. "Well, it's really just a matter of semantics," she replied. "The first word of the curse is _Sangrio_, so that determines the family it belongs to. If the first word was _Vomita_, it would be in the Vomitum family."

Ron Weasley raised his hand next and set the stage for a complete U-turn from the established format. "How come only _Avada Kedavra_ is Unforgivable?" he inquired, screwing up his mouth in puzzlement. "There are lots nastier deadly curses, like the Sangriatus family. Why aren't those Unforgivables?"

The introduction of one of her two greatest pet peeves drew from Andrea a predatory grin. "Well, you'll have to tell me something first," she said. "Do you want the real answer, or the bureaucratic drivel?"

Ron laughed, perhaps thinking of a bureaucrat he knew or had met. "Both, I guess," he answered. "I really want the truth, but the bureaucratic drivel sounds interesting."

"The bureaucratic answer is that the _Kedavra_ is more calloused because it shows ultimate disregard for human life," Andrea began, but she never got further than that.

"I beg to differ," a quiet voice said matter-of-factly from the back of the room. All eyes, including those of the teacher and the Auror, turned to the shadows where Zarekael was busily straightening and unfolding his tall form. Meli knew for a fact that he had not been there when class had started; he must have come in during her introduction of "Agent Hiller" or shortly thereafter.

Andrea, meanwhile, favored Zarekael with an appraising look, then nodded and gestured for him to continue.

Zarekael acknowledged her yielding of the floor with a slight bow, then went on. "The other curses—such as the Sangriatus series—show more cold blood and deliberation than the _Kedavra_ ever could do. In a sense, the _Kedavra_ is the coward's way out because death is easily dealt out and the death itself does not seem real to the killer—it's easier to hide behind those two words. With the other curses, the killer watches the suffering of another human being who is bleeding or suffocating or vomiting, for example, and that is more calloused than simply killing the victim."

"Well said," Andrea said. "On that we agree." She paused as an idea lit behind her eyes. "For the edification of the class, would you be willing to examine a textbook case?" Zarekael nodded, so she continued, "Here's a high-profile case most of you'll recognize since it's fairly recent."

A horrible premonition seized Meli and the taste of bitter irony filled her mouth. Before she could fall, she leaned backward against her desk and prepared to weather the coming storm.

"You should all have heard about the Golden murders," Andrea went on, not noticing Meli's behavior. "There were three victims. The husband, John, was tortured and killed first. The skin on the front of his torso was peeled back, his ribcage was torn open, his organs fell out, and he died when he was stabbed through the heart. The only magic used on him was an enervation charm to keep him from passing out from the pain.

"The wife, Elizabeth, and their four year-old daughter were forced to watch. Then Elizabeth was hit with the Sangriatus Poros and, while she was dying, her daughter was killed by the _Kedavra_. Based upon your previous statements, which death is more calloused, and why?"

Meli forced herself to look at Zarekael. He had taken to heart the term "textbook" and had clearly removed himself entirely from the scenario being described; his manner was analytic, as though this was nothing more than a logic problem. Given the possible consequences of his showing any other reaction, Meli could not fault him.

After a thoughtful pause, Zarekael said, "Let me see if I have this straight. Am I correct in saying that you believe these were all done by the same person?" Andrea nodded. "And the husband died first, his body mutilated by a knife-wielding attacker." The Auror nodded again. "The wife was attacked next, but she didn't _die_ next. Instead, she was hit with the Sangriatus Poros, one of the slower-acting curses, and while she was dying, the little girl was killed with the _Kedavra_." At Andrea's third nod, he shook his head once. "Perhaps this is not the best example."

Andrea was taken aback. "Could you explain that?"

"We're discussing the callousness of the _Kedavra_ in relation to other deadly curses. In this case, the context of the _Kedavra_ makes it more callous than it would be otherwise. To address the original question, however, we could examine each of the incidents in isolation. In that case, what was done to the little girl was actually a mercy after what she had just witnessed. However, the fact that she was murdered at all demonstrates a disregard for human life. It must be noted, though, that she suffered no pain; she was simply dead at the end.

"Her mother's case was a step up in the murderer's callousness; he used a slow-acting curse. He would have watched her slowly dying in agony. Depending upon the victim involved, the death takes an untold amount of time, which suggests further that the killer enjoyed it. That is beyond disregard for human life."

Meli's stomach lurched and her skin went cold as she perceived the hidden message conveyed by those words. Zarekael, as she had observed, did not relish the memory of killing Elizabeth, but at the time, he had enjoyed murdering her. Not a comforting thing to know, really.

He continued in his analysis, never missing a beat. "As for the husband," he said, "there was no hiding behind words. Here the culprit had to harm him physically; based upon your description, he would have had to be near his victim, who was very probably screaming and struggling. The killer had blood on his hands with the husband, which was not the case with the other two victims. A killing in this manner suggests either a deranged mind or someone so cold and calculating that he has the ability to willfully detach from himself and to ignore another's agony. This, I believe, would be the ultimate disregard for human life." There was an odd sheen in his eyes as he paused, then finished with the final nail in his own coffin: "Nevertheless, each of these three murders is worthy of a life sentence in Azkaban—at the very least."

_I know for a fact that he's not deranged,_ Meli thought, catching his second hidden message. _He can detach—he _has_ detached before._ The chilling expression he had worn during their conversation at the edge of the Forbidden Forest came back to her, and she forced herself not to shiver with reaction.

Andrea took a moment to process this thorough spiel, blinking a few times before she nodded. "A very complete analysis," she told him. "And well thought-out to boot. Thank you."

Zarekael bowed again, then stepped back to the shadows. At that juncture, Meli noticed two things, one of which rattled her more than anything else had yet done.

First, she noticed that Harry Potter was watching Zarekael intently, even suspiciously, as though he suspected that Zarekael's analysis hadn't been all off-the-cuff. That would have been bad enough, but then Meli saw that Zarekael was watching Andrea just as intently.

_He didn't come here for the entertainment of hearing an adversary talk,_ she realized suddenly. _He came here to build up a profile on her. And if he thinks she's getting too close to anything that could compromise either his cover or Snape's . . ._ She laid a hand on the desk to steady herself. _Zarekael is planning to kill Andrea Underhill._

Andrea, quite unaware of the potential shortness of her own life, surveyed the class. "Are there any other questions?"

There was a very long pause as the students attempted to shake the dark mood that had settled over them during the extended treatment of deadly curses. Finally, Seamus Finnigan raised a hesitant hand.

"What was your funniest mishap as an Auror?" he asked cautiously.

The question elicited a smirk from Andrea. "Well, actually," she said, "this was the first day my current partner and I were together. Someone called in a report that a flock of hinkypunks were loose in their neighborhood . . ."

Meli tuned out the story, which she had heard a few times already—five times just that day—and instead turned her thoughts to figuring out the earliest time she could arrange a meeting with Dumbledore without alerting Andrea that something was up. After all, telling Andrea that someone was plotting to kill her was only the first disastrous drop in the bucket—and while it wouldn't be wise to warn the Auror anyway, none of them could afford for Andrea to start asking the questions that must logically follow from that initial tidbit of information. Snape might already know by now, but whether Dumbledore knew it or not, it would be best to have it on the record before something happened to put it there in a more dramatic fashion.

Near the end of Andrea's story (when she had just gotten to the part about Kevin being allergic to manticore fur, just after the part about Andrea's encounter with a misplaced boggart, and just prior to the part about the hinkypunks tarring and feathering a chicken as a diversion), Meli tuned back in to find half of the class nearly on the floor because they were laughing so hard. She studiously avoided looking to Zarekael for his reaction; if she was to function according to her role for the remainder of the day, she had to remain calm and collected.

After a rousing description of how she and Kevin had finally, against numerous odds, rounded up and confined the renegade hinkypunks, Andrea had about a five minute breather while the students laughed themselves into eventual silence. Even so, one or two of them randomly burst out laughing at odd intervals throughout the rest of the period. Seeing that another humorous story would probably _not_ be in order, and perceiving the low chances that any of the students was thinking clearly enough to formulate a question, Andrea apparently decided to round out the hour with a question of her own.

"Now here's a good hypothetical question for you all to consider," she said thoughtfully, turning to Meli, who fervently hoped that it would be purely educational. "Could the Ministry send in a spy to infiltrate the Death Eaters?"

Meli smiled and straightened, drawing her wand. "An excellent educational question," she replied. _Andrea, you're my friend, but I really hate you sometimes. Here I am, trying to figure out how to _save_ your life, and you're doing your best to get yourself killed anyway!_ She pointed her wand at the air over her desk. "_Tabula rasa_." A shimmering surface appeared in the air where she summoned it. "All right, Agent Hiller. You introduce a very interesting idea, so let's run with it and play it out to its logical end."

The students, she saw, also watched the interaction with rapt attention. Selling _them_ would take precious little effort; putting a close friend off the scent would be a touch harder, unfortunately, but for the sake of another close friend present, she slid into Slytherin mode and made the most of it. She began writing with her wand, and when she stepped aside again, the words "Infiltrator" and "Bought Spy" glowed red at the top of the slate. Branching out from the former heading were the words "Former Death Eater" and "New Recruit"; branching out from the latter were the words "Coward" and "Irredeemable".

"There are two options which come to mind when dealing with covert operations," Meli said. "Most preferable is to have someone on the inside whom you trust, for obvious reasons."

Andrea nodded, a peculiar look in her eyes. She was trying to figure out Meli's tactic, and so far it eluded her. That was good.

Meli tapped "Bought Spy" with her wand. "Sometimes it's possible to buy the loyalty of a member of the group in question," she continued. "In the case of Death Eaters, however, we run into a fundamental problem. By their very nature, the Death Eaters are either too cowardly to be trusted or too loyal, either to the Dark Lord or to the quest for power, to be turned by anything as paltry as money or other wealth." She struck a line through "Bought Spy", and it and its branches exploded in small, impressive fireballs.

"Now, that leaves us with the option Agent Hiller has suggested." She nodded respectfully to Andrea, tapped "Infiltrator", and smiled again. "It certainly is more viable than the other, and it gives us the added advantage of sending in someone we know and trust one hundred percent.

"There are two different types of people we could send in. We could send a repentant Death Eater—someone they already know—or we could send fresh blood that they've probably never encountered."

She raised her eyebrows and looked to the class. "Which would you send?"

Hermione's was the first hand in the air; Meli nodded to her. "I would send a new recruit," Hermione answered. "There's less of a chance that they'd know much about him and less of a chance they'd find out he's a spy."

Andrea was frowning thoughtfully, but made no comment.

"True enough." Meli paused a beat, then went on. "However, this is a double-edged fact because while the Death Eaters, and more importantly, the Dark Lord, may not know enough about him to suspect he's a spy, they will also not trust him very much _because_ they don't know enough about him. Any intelligence he could provide would be incomplete, almost to the point of uselessness, and he would have no chance at sabotage for some time—months, or perhaps even years. He would certainly be unable to infiltrate the inner circle, where the most valuable information is to be gathered.

"A former Death Eater would be more known," she continued. "That might make him more likely to be trusted, but there are other serious disadvantages that would accompany that. For example, all of the Death Eaters who survived the Dark Lord's fall both alive and free from Azkaban were people who denied their previous loyalties. Some even testified against other Death Eaters, the better to secure their own freedom. How far do you think any of them trusts the others?"

Silence greeted this question, but she could hear wheels turning in the proper direction. Andrea, by contrast, had an odd little smile indicative of wheels turning in a wholly different direction. _Oh, now that's just ducky,_ she sighed internally.

"Moreover," she went on quietly, forcing herself not to choke on her next words, "there are initiation rites by which any of them must prove their loyalty." She cleared her throat. "For example, the Golden murders are suspected to have been part of an initiation." Her students looked ill; Andrea nodded thoughtfully; Zarekael was unreadable. "A former Death Eater would know only too well what such proof of loyalty entails. I can assure you that going back to something like that will not appeal to him in the least. His unwillingness to go so far would surely expose him as a spy. A new recruit would almost certainly be likewise exposed."

She returned her attention to the words floating behind her. "So, Agent Hiller, you ask if we could send in a spy." She arched an eyebrow. "_Can_ we? Of course. The true question, however, is _will_ we?" She slowly and deliberately crossed out "Infiltrator", and as the remaining words went up in smoke, she answered, "I very seriously doubt it. We shall have to find other ways of dealing effectively with the Dark Lord."

As if on cue, the bell rang and the students slowly filed out. Meli took a deep breath, not daring even to sigh with relief. If Andrea had seen through it, she would say so soon enough; if not, Zarekael might well leave his knives in their sheaths another day.

_What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive._ She didn't know offhand who had said that, but she knew that poet for a very wise person indeed. The web grew larger and larger, ever more intricate, and ever more deadly—not to flies, but to the very spiders that wove it.

The bell rang, signaling the beginning of Meli's free period and turning loose the fifth year Gryffindors. Andrea noticed suddenly that Zarekael had already departed, probably before the bell, and that turned her mind to an analysis of the dialogue she'd had with him "for educational purposes". It had proven quite educational, as it happened, as had Meli's later answer to the Auror's "hypothetical" question.

Based upon her observations of both Snape and Zarekael, as well as Meli's continued defense of Snape, a clear picture of the probable state of affairs was forming in Andrea's mind.

Meli would not defend a Death Eater who was loyal to Voldemort; they were enemies, antitheses one of the other. The chances of her being mistaken about Snape's loyalties were small, and then of course there was Dumbledore. He was, if possible, even more prescient in these matters than Meli was, and he plainly trusted both Snape and Zarekael.

_All right, then. I'll ask her one more time about Snape, and if she still stands by him, I'll know that my gut instinct is correct, and he's all right._

Andrea's gut had told her as soon as she'd met the father and son that they were creepy but on the right side; she only hoped that her gut wasn't slipping.

What her gut _hadn't_ told her was what sort of disloyal former Death Eater Snape might be. Two possibilities had remained, and it had been up to her logical faculties to determine the rest—not that the distinction mattered . . . but on the other hand, if she could figure out what his situation was, she might be able to help him in some way should the need arise.

Zarekael had displayed a surprising capacity for serious thought—surprising for a nineteen year-old, anyway, she amended. He was very mature, as exemplified by his ability to teach at such a young age, and he had a compelling ethical and moral standard, shown in his final verdict in the Golden case. He did not display a disregard for human life or a desensitization to violence, either of which might surface in a war orphan. Conversely, of course, a war orphan might develop a higher sensitivity to the value of human life and to the violence that took it. Perhaps Zarekael had always been that way and Snape had encouraged (or at least not discouraged) him in it, or perhaps Snape had infused in him a sense of morality and ethics. Either possibility spoke in Snape's favor.

Zarekael's detached manner of answering suggested that he had little or no experience at having carried out such horrors and that they were unreal to him as a result—Andrea thought. However, that detachment might come from having been exposed to the horrors of war earlier in life; his detachment _might_ indicate a desensitization, then. But when viewed in light of his evident ethics, that desensitization did not preclude a respect for human life and a moral opposition to the likes of Voldemort.

Approaching the question from a different direction, Andrea saw that something held Zarekael at Hogwarts, something other than his apprenticeship. Even in Europe, where long-standing traditions were still observed, potions apprenticeships were rarely heard of; most potions masters obtained their training at universities nowadays. Based upon her observations, Andrea was confident that Zarekael would have done well outside of Hogwarts, and he seemed the sort that _would _wish to leave, to learn more about the rest of the world. He was curious and intelligent; nothing about himself should have held him back.

Thus, it must have been something outside of himself that kept him from going, and Andrea strongly suspected that that something was Snape.

Aurors the world over had noted subtle signs of Voldemort's return, and by the time word got out that Hogwarts' Chamber of Secrets had been reopened, only Aurors who were given to criminally foolish wishful thinking even dared to hope that Voldemort was gone for good. How much more, then, would a former Death Eater in close proximity to these happenings be aware that Voldemort would rise again and soon? Snape, who actually had a Dark Mark, would know even better than Andrea the multiple disadvantages of such a brand; he would have known that if Voldemort rose and he did not return to the Dark Lord's service, he would suffer.

As Snape's adopted son, Zarekael might very well have learned of this. Had Snape returned as a spy, or even a loyal Death Eater, there would be no reason for Zarekael to remain at Hogwarts; indeed, he would have been safer elsewhere. As Meli had pointed out, Snape would have been suspected of treachery from the moment of his return, and had Voldemort thought that anything was awry, Zarekael would make a convenient hostage, easily grabbed by students being courted by the Death Eaters. Moreover, his remaining at Hogwarts would make it far more likely that he would learn of his father's illicit activities and jump to the conclusion that Snape was a Death Eater (if he had not, indeed, learned of Snape's prior activities, which was also plausible), and his ethical standards would not permit him to remain silent.

But Zarekael had stayed at Hogwarts, and he was pursuing his father's profession. In fact, he had immediately picked up more duties than Andrea might ordinarily have expected a first-year apprentice to do. He had been teaching nearly half of the Potions classes for a year and a half now, and he had been an apprentice only two months longer than that. This suggested to Andrea that there had been some urgency to it, as if Snape had feared that he would be unable to carry his full workload. Given that Voldemort's preparation for his return had begun about the time Zarekael could have started his apprenticeship, it made sense; Snape's Dark Mark would have begun to darken either that summer or the autumn immediately following, a sure sign if he needed one that his respite was coming to an end.

So, faithful son and friend that he was, Zarekael had put his future temporarily (he must have hoped) and partially on hold, taking a position as Snape's apprentice in order to help him when things turned bad. Snape had a great deal of self-control when necessity demanded it, Andrea perceived, but even beneath his impassive surface, he must be suffering a great deal.

Well, she amended, his _relatively_ impassive surface. Some strain showed through, and according to Meli, he had a temper that was best not tried, even under the best of circumstances. All things considered, he was holding up quite well; it required the perceptive eyes of an Auror—or a close friend—to see through it.

_Meli must know, then,_ she thought suddenly. _No wonder she says I'm barking up the wrong tree._

Unless, of course, there was something else going on . . .

That maddening possibility kept coming back, tapping steadily at her skull with the terrible regularity of Chinese water torture. But her gut told her that Snape and Zarekael were on her side in the war, and Meli would never deliberately deceive her—not in matters of right and wrong.

_All right, you vicious little voice,_ she thought darkly. _I'll ask Meli one more time, and then you'd better shut up once and for all or you'll wish otherwise._

Not that she knew precisely how to punish a voice in her head.


	28. A Minor Curiosity

****

Chapter 28: A Minor Curiosity

NOVEMBER 1986, FRESHMAN YEAR AT UNIVERSITY

"So," Andrea said, flopping down on her bed. "Decided what you're doing for the holidays?"

Meli looked mildly at her. "Should I have?" she replied, glancing at the calendar. "It's a month and a half until Christmas."

"But it's only two and a half _weeks_ 'til Thanksgiving," Andrea countered. "What are you doing for that?"

"Thanksgiving?" Meli gave her a blank look.

"Five-day weekend—you've got to go somewhere for turkey."

Meli offered a smile that seemed to indicate indulgence of a mental patient on a rant. "Have I, then?" she asked. "And why is that?"

"It's tradition!" Andrea told her.

"For Americans, perhaps," Meli allowed. "I've survived eighteen years without it. What's one more?"

Andrea looked reproachful. "When in Rome, Meli."

"But I'm not _in_ Rome, am I?" she countered. "Or are you also suggesting that I should go traipsing about in a toga?"

A snort of laughter escaped her roommate, but it was succeeded almost immediately by a disapproving glare. "Come on, Meli—consider it a cultural experience."

"Do you know how much I could get done over five days if I'm _not_ busy eating turkey?" Meli raised her eyebrows. "That's plenty of time to finish off three term papers and several reading assignments."

"But you'll be missing out on Thanksgiving Day!" Andrea protested. "The Macy's parade, the turkey and stuffing—"

"If it's only one day," Meli interrupted, "why do we have a five-day weekend?"

Andrea shrugged. "Well, Thanksgiving's on a Thursday, and no one wants to travel _on_ Thanksgiving Day if they can help it, so we get a travel day on either side, and then Saturday and Sunday we have off anyway."

"Oh, that's the way of it, then." Meli ran some quick calculations. "And it's traditional not to do homework during that time?"

"Well . . . we do as little as possible," Andrea allowed.

"Then I'll be at least two weeks ahead of everyone!" She smiled cheerily, then returned to her typing.

Andrea sighed. "Look, I _know_ you've been certified to apparate," she said, "so it's not like you have to buy a plane ticket. Isn't there someone back home you'd like to visit?"

"The few friends I have will all be in school," Meli pointed out dryly. "And as for my family . . . Well, I haven't seen my grandfather for eight years, and I have no wish ever to see him again. My parents died five years ago, and I haven't anyone else. My only other home is Hogwarts, and I can't very well go there for a visit, can I? They'll be in session, as well."

"So you're just going to stay here, then?"

She sighed. "You make it sound like a tragedy, Andrea, and it's not. I've always been solitary; I don't mind it. So yes, I will stay here for Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year's and Lincoln's Birthday and Easter and any other days Americans have invented as an excuse not to study."

"That's Presidents Day," Andrea corrected sardonically. "We don't get a day off for just Lincoln."

Meli stared at her, mystified. "Do you mean to tell me that you take a day off for Martin Luther King, Jr., but not for the man who saw to it that he was a clergyman instead of a slave? What sense does _that_ make?!"

Andrea shrugged again. "Hey, I don't decide the days," she answered. "I just sleep in on 'em."

"_What_ a backward country." Meli shook her head.

"Backward?" Andrea repeated. "Cut me a break! We make all the best movies with all the coolest special effects. _America_ brought you _Star Wars_, my friend."

"But Britain produced _Masterpiece Theatre._"

"Yeah? Well who gave the world Pepsi and Coors?"

Meli smirked. "As opposed to the kingdom that gave you Guinness and Glenlivet?"

Andrea was glaring again, but she was obviously amused. "Tom Clancy, Mark Twain, and Henry James are all American."

"But Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, J.R.R. Tolkien, and the Brontës were all British," Meli retorted. "And Henry James expatriated to England."

"Weell . . . your country produced Ozzy Osbourne!"

Meli hadn't the faintest idea who Ozzy Osbourne might be, other than a musician, but she was not about to concede a point on that basis. "I happen to like Ozzy Osbourne," she countered. "And we also produced the Beatles. What do you have—Elvis?" She snorted derisively.

"We've got all the best actors, though!" Andrea persisted. "Harrison Ford, Audrey Hepburn, Jimmy Stewart, Tom Hanks, Julia Roberts—"

"Whereas we have Richard Harris, Maggie Smith, Alan Rickman, John Cleese, Peter Cushing, Dame Judy Dench, and Christopher Lee," Meli cut her off. "Shall I go on? Sir Ian McKellan, Patrick Stewart—"

"All right, so stop, already!"

"I'm waiting for your rebuttal."

Andrea paused, her mouth open and ready to pour out the first witty reply that came to mind. Finally: "Well, we still whupped your butts in 1781!"

"Oh, _please_!" Meli laughed in mock-exasperation. "We _let_ you go, you silly Yank! You don't honestly think we'd _want_ to hold on to a handful of colonies in which people had much rather eat turkey than work, who think the proper use for tea is to pour it into the ocean, and who have to go to the French—the _French_!—for help in fighting off our _token_ army to win an independence that we wanted you to have anyway! We put up a fight so you'd value your perceived liberty while we could enjoy our superior culture in peace, without your interference, but seeing how that freedom's gone to your head and given you delusions of your own superiority, perhaps we should have held onto you—we might have been able to knock some sense into you at an early, formative stage and prevented the current monstrosity!"

Andrea stared at her, then slowly grinned. "You must've been pretty good at talking your way out of punishments," she said.

"You'll have to ask my teachers about that one," Meli replied. "I'll never tell."

PRESENT: LATE FEBRUARY

Snape was not thrilled when, upon entering the Potions classroom from his office, he discovered Meli's Auror friend waiting for him. He preserved his composure, however, and inclined his head slightly in greeting. "Is there something I can do for you, Agent Hiller?" he inquired.

"Nothing pertaining to official business," she replied, smiling almost sheepishly. "In fact, I hope to be out of your hair in under five minutes. There's only one question I have, and it's just a curiosity thing."

Snape narrowed his eyes in amusement. "Oh?'

"How was Meli at getting out of scrapes when she was a student here?"

He stared at her. It was probably the last question he would have expected an Auror to ask. "Are you suggesting that she's trying to 'get out of a scrape' now?" he countered.

"No!" The Auror looked genuinely shocked at the idea. "This has nothing to do with any of that. But when we were in college together, she had a knack for winning pretty much every argument or debate, even when all the evidence was against her. I asked her if she'd ever made use of that skill for getting out of punishments, and she told me I'd have to ask her teachers because she'd never tell." She shrugged. "So, now that I'm in the neighborhood, I'm asking."

Snape quirked one corner of his mouth. Yes, that did sound like something Meli would say—and even if Agent Hiller was lying, she could investigate Meli Ebony to her heart's content; there was nothing there that she probably didn't already know, and if there was, she had no way of finding it out.

"I have long regretted that Meli was not Sorted into Slytherin," he replied after a moment. "She would have done far more credit to that House than almost everyone since Sorted into it. Yes, Agent Hiller, she was quite adept at avoiding punishment _when it suited her_. But perhaps you should ask her about the times when it did _not_ suit her to do so."

"When it _didn't_—" The Auror's eyes had widened to saucers. "Oh, my. I'll do that." She nodded once. "Thank you, Professor Snape," she said. "I won't trouble you further."


	29. Upping the Ante

****

Chapter 29: Upping the Ante

Andrea did not expect to receive much, if any, mail while at Hogwarts, but a letter came for her anyway, and not from either the American Ministry or its British counterpart. It dropped from the sky to land beside her plate, and as soon as she saw the handwriting on the envelope, she pocketed it and excused herself. Meli looked curiously at her, but she replied with an innocuous excuse that wasn't precisely dishonest, but which was also quite distant from the truth and still had the redeeming trait of mollifying Meli.

Once she was alone in her rooms, with a few dozen extra wards added to her usual several, she took out the envelope and opened it. The handwriting was familiar to her, but no one else would recognize it; the letter had been written with a scrambling Dicto-quill. The writer had to have been desperate or the message urgent to justify the cost and risk of a trans-Atlantic owl. It was both, as Andrea saw when she read it:

Impalers creating file on you.  
Gave safe account, but beware.  
Possible hit.

The Auror set her jaw, then burned both letter and envelope. As if her life wasn't complicated enough at the moment, the Impalers had suddenly taken an interest in her.

The Impalers were the vampiric equivalent of the Death Eaters. At their head was Morden Vlad, whom Meli had identified as a Death Eater nearly a decade before. Details on the Impalers' relationship with Voldemort were officially sketchy, but Andrea's informant had filled in a few holes for her.

Vampires were an exclusive, and often egotistical, community, and they would never willingly subject themselves to a mere human, even if that human was a Dark Lord. Nevertheless, an alliance between the Impalers and Voldemort was mutually beneficial, and the two sides had ironed out a compromise: the Impalers answered directly to Vlad, and he alone received the Dark Mark—strictly for communication purposes, of course. What Andrea and her informant knew, namely that the Dark Mark made Morden Vlad and, consequently, every one of his subordinates subject to Voldemort, seemed to have bypassed the self-satisfied Impalers entirely.

Andrea knew that the Vlad family, who controlled the Impalers, had never liked or trusted her. She came from a meddlesome family that produced an inordinate amount of Aurors, and she had shown signs early in life that she would follow in the family tradition. While at Ariel, she had also been responsible, directly or indirectly, for a number of incidents that publicly humiliated Damon Vlad, who had been until recently his father's heir apparent. The final straw had come when her cousin Will had started dating Damon's cousin Raven; Andrea, far from disapproving, had done her best to befriend Raven and encourage her to distance herself from the family business. Raven's father (Morden's brother) had, as it happened, been consolidating his position as a dissenting voice, and he had shortly thereafter separated entirely from Morden's pursuits. Although Turin Vlad had never been an Impaler, nor had any of the members of the sizable faction he led away from the main vampire community, Morden and Damon somehow blamed Andrea's influence on Raven for the breach. Within six months of the schism, Damon had personally killed first Will's brother, then Will, leaving them on their front lawn with Impalers' stakes through their hearts.

"So now you're finally after _me,_" Andrea murmured to the air. "Took you a year to get around to it . . . what's your game?"

The nature of the game really didn't matter much, and she knew it. As soon as the last traces of the letter were reduced to ashes, Andrea turned away to her suitcase, from which she drew an item she'd brought along just in case. She checked to be sure that the silver stake was sharp, then re-sheathed it and belted the sheath at her waist under her robes.

Andrea's first Saturday at Hogwarts, she treated Meli to lunch in Hogsmeade. Both wore witches' robes for the occasion and agreed to leave all discussions pertaining to Aurors and Death Eaters behind at the school. Nevertheless, Meli had the distinct impression that her always-efficient old friend was trying to slip in through the back door while still keeping a low profile. It was a Hogsmeade weekend for students from Hogwarts, but all that meant was that Andrea would have to be a little more subtle in her sifting.

"So now you're a teacher," the Auror observed after their food had been set down. "How does this compare with your days as a student?"

Meli smiled and took a sip of butterbeer. "Difference between day and night," she replied after swallowing. "Before, I was paying to learn and pulled pranks on the side. Now I get paid to teach and sniff out pranksters on the side." She shrugged. "It's a living."

"And how do you and McGonagall get along now?" Andrea asked with a smirk.

Meli snorted. "We get on quite well, since I behave as a normal, responsible adult should. She never had much of a problem with me before—it's what I _did_ that bothered her.

"Not bestest buds, though?" Andrea remarked sardonically.

Meli gave Andrea her most reptilian smile. "We have a professional understanding," she answered. "I've just a touch too much Slytherin in me for us really to be friends." _For example,_ she added silently, _I would never think of going shopping with her._ That, unfortunately, brought to mind her shopping expedition with Zarekael, which, in turn, brought to mind the night club fiasco. The mental image of Minerva McGonagall walking into that club was enough to make Meli burst out laughing, an occurrence which drew every eye in the Three Broomsticks to their table.

Andrea, meanwhile, looked on with some alarm at first, then began to check Meli's butterbeer bottle for signs of a laughing hex.

Once Meli had calmed herself somewhat, she straightened, took a deep breath, and then had another pull at her drink, all as if nothing had happened. It was a hard battle, though; the only way to stop laughing was to chase the image from her mind, and the only way to do that was to replace it with another, far less humorous image. Thus, by the time she had swallowed a sip of butterbeer, McGonagall in the night club had been displaced by a troupe of ballerinas performing _Swan Lake_. As long as the lead's face wasn't replaced by McGonagall's (or even worse, Snape's or Zarekael's), she was safe from repeating the outburst.

"So what about you?" she asked casually. "Do you think you'll ever go back to teach at Ariel or Blackwing?"

Andrea stared at her for a moment, plainly debating on whether or not to call a psychiatrist, then slowly shrugged. "I haven't thought that far ahead yet," she replied, her tone showing that she was still mildly disturbed. "If I did, it'd be Blackwing, though. I can't work with kids."

"Arithmancy, or Defense Against the Dark Arts?"

The Auror smirked. "What do you think?" she countered. There was a subtle shift in her manner, and Meli detected a probable change in conversational track, as well. "I doubt I could have co-workers any better than yours, though," Andrea continued. "They're all top-notch over there at Hogwarts."

"Yes." _If you want information, you're going to have to ask for it; I'm not volunteering anything._

"Even the ones who don't seem so warm and fuzzy at first . . ." Andrea arched an eyebrow.

_Sorry, I'm not biting._ Meli furrowed her brow. "Oh, I know Flitwick can be a little brusque at first," she said, deadpan. "But under all that, he's really quite—"

"Charming?" Andrea suggested dryly.

Meli smiled impishly. "Oh, you've heard that one, have you?"

"Rather recently, too," the Auror replied. "But actually, I was thinking of Hogwarts' Potions master."

_And here I thought we were leaving work at home_. "Severus Snape?" Meli asked innocently. "What about him?"

"Well . . ." Andrea trailed off for a moment, her eyes seeming to search the ceiling above Meli's head. She returned her focus a moment later, though, and picked up precisely where she'd left off. "I have to admit, Meli, he's not someone I'd've expected you to be friends with." She gave her former roommate a significant look.

Meli raised mild eyebrows. "It's a pity you never knew Crimson Fell," she replied. "Had you ever seen me with her, nothing would surprise you about the people I choose to call friends. She was a Slytherin—did I ever tell you that?"

Andrea nodded slowly. "A couple of times."

"Moreover, she was a Slytherin with no strong secondary House," Meli continued. "I, by a small re-balancing, could have found myself in either Slytherin or Ravenclaw, but there was never any doubt at any point that Crim belonged anywhere but where she was Sorted. She was incredibly clever, of course, but hers was a Slytherin cleverness, not at all suited to Ravenclaw." Her eyes locked with Andrea's. "But she was the least likely of any of them to go bad. Pierce would have gone first—and did. Collum next, and he never did. And far down the road from there, _long_ afterward, if ever, Crim might have gone, under extreme and highly improbable and unlikely circumstances. Yet of the four of us, she was the only true Slytherin." She shook her head decisively. "Appearances can be gravely deceiving, my friend."

"They can be," the Auror allowed. "But what if they're not?"

Meli forced her eyes not to flash, reminding herself firmly that Andrea was her friend, and, in the end, they were all on the same side. "In this case, I know they're not," she replied. "Severus is as true a friend to me as Crim ever was, and I think you'll find without having to probe too much that you and he have very similar priorities."

Andrea's eyes widened as the full message of that statement translated itself in her mind. Snape's priorities must include protecting Meli as well as he could—which meant he knew the nature of her curse and bane, and was willing to risk friendship with her anyway—and bringing about Voldemort's fall in any way he could.

Still, she was suspicious by nature, an Auror to the core, and she must be sure. "You're certain of that?" she asked. "I mean, _really_ certain of it? No doubt in your mind?"

Meli's history with Snape spanned nearly two decades; she knew him too well for that. "Not one," she replied truthfully. _And now it's time that we changed the subject entirely._ "Are you going to eat your lamb stew before it gets cold?"

Andrea smirked. "Says the girl who hasn't touched her shepherd's pie," she rejoined.

Meli smiled. "I stand rebuked and convicted of my hypocrisy; please, allow me to rescue my conscience by having a bite or two."

"Sounds good to me."

It was Meli's turn to host Sunday afternoon tea, and since she was still playing hostess to Andrea, she invited the Auror, as well. Andrea could have no concept of how radically her mere presence altered the conversation; Meli, Snape, and Zarekael were far too careful of actors for that. However, it was a fact that her being there put the others ill at-ease, and Meli regarded that as unfortunate; under pretty much any other circumstances, she thought that Andrea would have gotten on quite well with Snape and Zarekael.

Meli served a simple tea, to which no one objected. Snape alone of the three knew the root of her aversion to sugar, but the others accepted the aversion itself without question. She kept no sugar, and she flatly refused to serve biscuits, but she saw to it that cream, scones, and lemon curd were available.

She had spent the entire morning making a mental list of safe topics for conversation: Andrea, Andrea's extracurricular interests, and her own stories of Hogwarts.

"So, Andrea," she now said, handing around the cups and barely hiding a slight smirk, "what progress have you made with the American curricula?"

Andrea rolled her eyes. "The Ministry tried to re-instate Self-Defense four years ago, but some enterprising watchdogs have tied it up in the courts. They've got deep pockets, too, so it could drag out indefinitely."

Meli raised her eyebrows. "The judge actually heard the case?"

"Idiotic, isn't it?" Andrea shook her head. "America isn't Britain, my friend; back home, you can collect millions from McDonald's for spilling hot coffee in your lap because of your own stupidity, but I'd lay odds that no British judge who wanted to stay outside of a padded cell would hear the case." She rolled her eyes and reverted to the previous subject. "They'll see the light, though—now that You-Know-Who's back."

Snape's eyes glittered dangerously. "Am I to assume that you're referring to Defense Against the Dark Arts?" he asked.

"Mm." Andrea nodded as she took a sip of tea. "They removed it about fifteen years ago. The headmaster at the time was a namby-pamby conciliatory wuss, so he pretty much just let them do it. Five years ago, though, he finally kicked off, and we got a _real_ wizard in there—not Dumbledore, but a good sight better than Pliant was."

"Was Pliant the one who oversaw the changes made for the sake of self-esteem?" Meli inquired. _Let's just take a step away from references to "You-Know-Who", shall we?_

"I wouldn't say he _oversaw_ them, exactly," Andrea replied, disgusted. "Let 'em steamroller him is more like it. He wanted too much to be liked, so he let people do anything they wanted. But yes, it happened during his stint."

"'Self-esteem'?" Zarekael echoed, raising mildly amused eyebrows.

Meli smiled wryly. "Americans place a higher value on students feeling good about themselves than on students actually comprehending academic basics. If a magical student is talking about school with a friend, won't he feel terribly inadequate and suicidal if he takes Arithmancy instead of Arithmetic, or Potions instead of Chemistry?"

Zarekael, who was different even from ordinary magical folk, and who had lived for seven years in Slytherin House (in which self-esteem was the last thing on anyone's mind, except as a flaw to be exploited) fell silent, but his amusement was evident.

"On the bright side," Andrea said dryly, "it helped to expand my vocabulary. Who knew that meteorology was fundamentally about prediction?" She smiled sweetly at Meli. "But one of the first things Lyons did when he came in was to put all the names back the way they used to be. So, where I took Natural Chemistry, Transformational Geometry, and Integrated Meteorological Math, my nephew is taking Potions, Transfiguration, and Arithmancy. Lord willing, he'll even get in a year or two of Self-Defense before graduation." She shrugged. "If anyone can get it done, my money's on Lyons. And if he gets it in at Ariel, it's only a matter of time before they put it back in at Tres Brujas and Prospero, too."

"At least there's hope," Meli mused.

Andrea shrugged again. "There's always hope," she replied. "The only thing in question is whether or not hope'll pan out." She altered her posture slightly, but not in a business-like manner, and Meli sensed a change in topic; she was not disappointed. "So, Meli, I've heard a bit about your pranking days—only the tip of the iceberg, I'm sure—but what about you, Zarekael? Did you spend a lot of time serving detention as a student?"

Inwardly, Meli grimaced. It was an admirable attempt to include one of the two mostly silent members of their party in the conversation, but pranking had probably never entered his practical vocabulary until he befriended a Skulker.

To her surprise, though, Zarekael nearly smirked. "Well," he replied, "there is one thing I could tell . . ."

Meli's eyebrows reached unprecedented heights, and Snape actually turned his head sharply to stare at the son and apprentice he had thought he knew so well. "Indeed," the Potions master managed.

Andrea, however, grinned knowingly. "The quiet ones," she observed. "They always seem way too innocent to be pranksters."

"I do not believe it could be precisely categorized as a prank," Zarekael told her. "It was more of a preventative and . . . educational . . . nature. The Weasley twins benefited handsomely from the lesson."

Snape's eyes went wide, and Meli knew her own had done so, as well. "That was _you_!" the former breathed.

"I would never have guessed," Meli said, truly awestruck. "And yet it fits so perfectly."

She knew that the Weasleys avoided Zarekael when at all possible, but she suspected that it was less from fear than from respect and a desire not to annoy him. She had also heard whispers around the school that, as first years, Fred and George had been foiled in an attempt to carry out an unspecified prank against an unnamed Slytherin, whose identity they would likely carry to their deaths in an attempt to minimize further consequences; she had synthesized those with McGonagall's account to formulate a hypothesis about the nature of said prank. These facts had been filed side by side in her mind, but she had never once thought to put them together.

"Sounds like quite a doozy, whatever it is," Andrea interjected. "What did you _do_, Zarekael?"

A Gryffindor might have blushed and glanced at the floor with an unspoken "aw-shucks", but Zarekael was very much _not_ a Gryffindor. A sardonic quirk turned upward one corner of his mouth, and his eyes took on a shrewd gleam.

"It would seem that, as a third-year, I gave the misimpression that I needed to lighten up and laugh a bit—at myself, or so Fred and George Weasley determined," he began. "I had insomnia one night and was walking the corridors near Slytherin, and I came upon two Gryffindors who had sneaked into the dungeons on some as-yet unclear mission of mischief. It took only a moment of listening to determine their purpose, however. They had put into place several dung-bomb launchers, all aimed at approximately the same location, but they were experiencing difficulty in setting up a person-specific stasis spell. I gathered from their discussion that that person was none other than myself, so, having already relieved them of their wands without their knowledge, I offered my input as to how they could account for certain factors." The quirk in Zarekael's lips developed now into a full-fledged smirk. "They thanked me very politely before realizing exactly who it was that had spoken to them."

Meli and Andrea burst into laughter, and Snape shook his head wonderingly.

"So," the Potions master marveled, "you set the stasis spell to hold two troublesome first-years, then set off the launchers and left them to be found in the morning."

"Who found them?" Andrea asked, still snickering.

Snape raised his eyebrows. "The Weasleys were wise in choosing the location for their trap," he allowed. "They were themselves trapped in the T-junction between the Potions corridor and the Slytherin common room. The only question was whether I would find them before the Slytherins did; as it happened, the discovery was simultaneous." He darted an accusing glance at Zarekael. "And _you_ were there the whole time, to all appearances as surprised and amused as everyone else."

"Do I want to know how many points Gryffindor lost for that lapse?" Meli inquired.

He smirked. "I believe the total was somewhere in the range of eighty," he answered. "They also served a week of detentions and suffered through a number of just comparisons to their predecessors."

"By which you mean the Skulkers?" Andrea suggested.

Snape nodded sagely. "The Weasleys were every bit as unimaginative in their response to detention as they were in planning their prank in the first place."

"I don't know," Meli countered. "It was fairly imaginative. Pre-doomed to failure when carried out by first-year Gryffindors, of course, but had they been patient enough to wait until they knew the proper spells, or had they found a co-conspirator with more Ravenclaw or Slytherin tendencies, they might very well have pulled it off." She smiled sweetly. "Though my vanity thanks you for the honor you pay it, Severus. It is a pleasing thought, however inaccurate it may prove to be, that the Skulkers were the greatest pranksters of all time."

"Your vanity is very welcome," Snape replied dryly. "However, the Weasleys have since shown that their initial lack of bizarre inventiveness has developed into an entrenched one; I harbor little hope that they will ever succeed in a Skulker-esque stunt." He frowned then, as if something had occurred to him, and drew out his pocket watch.

_Oh, no,_ Meli thought. _Please, let it just be Severus . . ._

The hope was in vain, for Zarekael, acting masterfully, glanced at Snape first, then drew out his own watch. He, too, was summoned into Voldemort's presence at a time when only one of them could leave without arousing suspicion.

Snape looked significantly at Zarekael. "I went last time," he said firmly. "It's your turn."

The apprentice, usually politely submissive, shook his head. "I'd rather you went this time, Father," he replied. "I'll go next time."

Snape's eyes widened authoritatively. "My statement was not an invitation to debate," he said coldly. "It is your turn, Zarekael."

Zarekael looked as though he might protest further, but, with a glance to the ladies present, he instead rose gracefully. "Yes, Father." He bowed to Meli and Andrea, then excused himself.

Snape put away his watch and calmly took a sip of tea.

Meli's stomach churned and roiled, and, though she couldn't have done otherwise without potentially raising suspicion, she bitterly regretted having invited Andrea. Had she, Meli, been the only other present, both Snape and Zarekael could have answered Voldemort's call without drawing unwanted attention, but the Auror's presence made that impossible. One had to remain behind, and Snape had volunteered.

It made sense, analytically speaking. Zarekael was still slightly out of favor with Voldemort because of his perceived failure in the attempt to kidnap Harry Potter; if even now he made a single stray step—such as answering a summons late, even with mitigating circumstances that must surely be known to the Dark Lord—Voldemort might well harm him more than he would another member of the inner circle. Snape, on the other hand, was more favored; he would be punished, of course, but his would be a less severe punishment, and he would lose less status in Voldemort's sight than Zarekael would.

Nevertheless, knowing as she did that Snape was willingly subjecting himself to several rounds of the Cruciatus, Meli had a difficult time behaving normally. Still, there was nothing she could do to prevent his coming torment without tipping both his hand and Zarekael's, and that, obviously, was not an option.

They sat in her quarters for nearly another hour, Snape doubtless receiving an urgent and painful summons every few minutes. Both he and Meli retained their composure, for no other reason than that they must. At last, however, Meli consulted her own watch.

"Andrea, didn't you say you needed to speak with Minerva McGonagall today?" she asked.

The Auror nodded. "Yeah."

"I believe she should be available in about twenty minutes." She glanced at Snape, who nodded once. McGonagall always kept office hours on Sundays to accommodate over-studious Ravenclaws.

Now Andrea checked the time. "Great. That should give me time to find her." She looked at Meli. "Do you know where she'd be?"

"You can find her in the Transfiguration classroom," Snape interjected smoothly. "I'd be happy to show you the way."

Andrea smiled. "Thanks. That'd be great."

She and Snape stood to go, and Meli firmly repressed a sigh of relief. She saw them out, then mechanically cleaned up the tea implements. Then she picked up a ready bottle from her work table and locked herself in her bedroom. By her calculation, she had perhaps ten minutes left until Snape at last arrived in Voldemort's presence, and it was best that she be prepared.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I know it doesn't seem like it, but the end of the story is coming within a couple more posts. At the suggestion of my beta-reader, I'm considering putting in an extra post at the end containing what Snarky and I facetiously refer to as "special features" (alas, even the realm of fanfiction is no longer safe from the DVD mentality). These include random crap that we came up with in idle moments, such as outtakes, an interview with the protagonist, and a few other oddities. If you have any interest in reading these examples of why people like me ought not to have too much free time on our hands, please let me know by email. If no one emails, the world will be spared (or deprived, depending on your point of view).


	30. Camerons Felled

****

Chapter 30: Camerons Felled

PRESENT: LATE FEBRUARY, A FEW DAYS LATER

Meli had learned that Dumbledore, kind as he was, was often given to the making of strange requests; she had also learned that the stranger Dumbledore's request, the more urgent it was that she find some way to comply with it. The headmaster was a great strategical thinker, and an odd request invariably (at least of late) camouflaged a more serious matter. Thus, when he asked her to come to his office for tea at three o'clock in the morning, she willingly assented, though she could not see what possible purpose it would serve.

Restlessness forced her from her quarters early, and she found herself wandering the dungeons nearly an hour before the appointed time. On consulting her watch, she found that it was time for either Snape or Zarekael to be tending to their vital potion, and, rather than wander in the boring company of her own thoughts, she turned her steps toward the Potions room.

Sure enough, she found Zarekael standing over the cauldron, slowly adding some sort of light blue powder to the happily bubbling brew. He glanced up at her entrance, then, once he could turn his attention fully to her, nodded in greeting.

"Good morning, Meli," he said wryly. "You would seem to be either very early or very late."

"Early, as it happens," she replied. "I'm due to have tea with Dumbledore in just over half an hour."

Zarekael raised an amused eyebrow. "Tea?" he repeated.

Meli shrugged. "I hadn't the heart to tell him his watch was twelve hours off," she quipped. "Besides, when he makes an eccentric request, he generally has a reason that eventually becomes clear. Perhaps he decided to have tea with every teacher individually, and I'll be dropping in just after Vector and before Sprout."

The other smirked. "Perhaps so," he conceded.

"And just imagine the work the house elves are going to for it all," she continued. "Why, they must be near-frantic. Poor Dobby has probably had to remove his socks to prevent a trip that would break his neck." Now she, too, smirked. "Although if he hasn't, and so _does_ turn up dead, I'm sure there are some who would breathe a sigh of relief."

"Yes," Zarekael allowed. "But Miss Granger's efforts to free the house elves would experience a sudden check at the loss of her best spokeself."

"Pity."

Both fell silent for a moment, and Meli's attention was drawn to another sound that she had not before picked up on: Zarekael had music playing in the background.

"Is this . . . Beethoven?" she asked.

The Potions apprentice, who had been methodically grinding some root that Meli did not immediately recognize, looked up in mild surprise. "Yes," he confirmed. "His Ninth Symphony."

Meli nodded. "I haven't heard it for awhile," she said, "though now that you say that, I recognize it perfectly—the second movement. I would have known the fourth movement immediately; I admit to being something of a Beethoven diehard."

"I like much of Beethoven's work," Zarekael replied. "In particular, his Fifth Symphony. But when working at potions, I find that lighter music is better."

"Ah." Meli nodded. _Beethoven's Fifth; naturally._ "I find that to be true when I'm preparing lesson plans. The Pachelbel Canon has pulled me through many a lecture on vampires."

He was clearly amused but said nothing as he finished his grinding and poured the root into the potion. The brew changed to a sickening brownish-purple and gave off a pungent scent. Unperturbed, Zarekael picked up a handful of leaves to his left and dropped them in, as well. The color gradually shifted to kelly green as the leaves dissolved, and the odor soon faded away.

Zarekael watched the brew for another moment, then glanced at his watch. "That should simmer for at least an hour," he said.

"Time for a short nap, at least," Meli remarked.

He narrowed his eyes in amusement. "No," he replied. "I have more time than that; it's Severus' turn in an hour."

Meli smiled. "Well, it's time I was off to tea," she said. "Sleep well, my friend."

Something in his expression indicated that there was an irony to the situation of which she was unaware. He nodded, however, and accompanied her to the door, where they parted ways.

She made it to Dumbledore's office without incident, but no sooner had he opened the door to admit her than the bottom of her stomach dropped like an express lift bound for the basement.

There, seated near the fireplace, were a slim, calculating dark-haired man and his slim, calculating, fair-haired wife, sipping tea as though there was nothing at all strange in the world. Their robes seemed a touch disheveled, and their hands shook slightly, but otherwise they could have been neighbors dropping in for tea and crumpets at two in the afternoon.

"I hope you'll forgive us for starting early, Meli," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling madly, "but our guests needed to fortify themselves; they've had a bit of an ordeal."

Meli nodded mechanically, but no part of her mind could quite wrap itself around the surreal scene before her. "Er, no, sir. I understand perfectly," she lied. "Welcome to Hogwarts, Mr. and Mrs. Fell."

They smiled then and set down their tea, but, on closer observation, she could see that they were still shaking too hard to stand safely. Mr. Fell, in particular, was quite pale.

"Hello, Meli," he said. "Sorry for dropping in on you like this; it wasn't exactly planned this way—well, not by us, anyway," he amended, darting a narrow glance at Dumbledore.

Nonplused, Meli also looked to Dumbledore, who smiled and invited her to have a seat. She did so mutely, her full attention riveted now to the headmaster.

"As you doubtless already know," Dumbledore began, "when Voldemort returned, all of the Fells, with the exception of Donald, went into hiding."

Meli nodded. Donald had fully estranged himself from his family, so, whether or not he actually was safe, he believed himself to be so.

"And as you know, Myrddin and Alexandra"—here Dumbledore nodded to the newly-arrived and still-rattled pair by the fire—"hid themselves so completely that no one could reasonably find them."

Meli smirked bitterly in understanding. "Unfortunately," she remarked, "Lucius Malfoy is a most unreasonable individual."

"Lucius Malfoy, eh?" Mr. Fell arched a calculating eyebrow. "At least now I know who to send the bill to."

"He ruined my new draperies!" Mrs. Fell said grumpily. "And I'm sure he set fire to the house just for the fun of it once we were gone."

Dumbledore smiled. "Yes, he is quite unreasonable. And so Myrddin and Alexandra found their well-secured home under attack not two hours ago."

Meli looked narrowly at the Fells. "Portkeys are a bit out of your style," she observed, "and last I checked, there's no way to apparate through Hogwarts' wards. So if you'll pardon my asking, how did you come to be here?"

In answer, each of the Fells drew a glass item out of a cloak pocket.

"There were eight attacking Death Eaters," Mrs. Fell told her. "We counted them ourselves. But only seven showed on our foe glass. Then one of them got through ahead of the others and handed these to us. He said we were to give them only to you. Almost as soon as the rest of the Death Eaters came into the room, he shouted a curse in our direction, and then we suddenly appeared here."

_It can't have been Zarekael. He's potion-sitting._ "What are they?" Meli asked.

"Paperweights," Mr. Fell replied. He ventured to stand now and handed both his and his wife's to Meli. "He said, 'Give these to Ebony,' so there you are."

Meli examined them and had to keep herself from laughing. There, trapped in the glass, were a rampant lion and a much smaller unicorn. These were unmistakably Snape's troublesome paperweights.

She looked up, her eyes deadly serious. "I would appreciate it if you didn't say anything about this to anyone else," she said quietly.

Both Fells nodded, and she knew that they were forming hypotheses in their heads at a terrific rate. _Let them,_ she thought. _They have no way of knowing nearly enough to arrive at a correct solution._

"Do you believe they were activated by the curse?" she asked.

Mrs. Fell nodded again. "The curse itself never hit us," she replied, then added dryly, "For which I'm very thankful. It was the Curse of a Thousand Swords."

It was a terrible struggle, but Meli kept all traces of shock from her face as she deposited the paperweights in her pocket. That was not a curse Snape would ordinarily have used or even thought of; anything involving cutting and stabbing lay in _Zarekael's_ arena. Yet Zarekael couldn't have been at the Fells'; he was minding the potion!

It stood to reason, then, that while Snape had _used_ the portkeys, Zarekael had created them, which meant in turn that he had known from the beginning exactly what she would find when she arrived at Dumbledore's office.

_You little sneak_, she thought in admiration. _We were having a perfectly normal conversation, and all the time you _knew!

"An ingenious way of activating a portkey," she said faintly.

"Now, of course, the question is where to go from here," Mr. Fell said. "We have another safe house ready, but, as Professor Dumbledore pointed out before you arrived, if Malfoy found our _best_ hideaway, he can find our second best, too."

An idea sparked to life in Meli's head, and she exchanged glances with Dumbledore. "Sir, I believe there may be another option."

Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling again. "By all means, bring her up," he replied.

Meli smiled and excused herself, then made a mad dash to Ravenclaw Tower, where Andrea's guest quarters were located. In rousing the Auror she created a racket fit to wake the dead, but at last the door opened to reveal a disgruntled face beneath a halo of frizzed curls. "This had better be good," Andrea growled. "It's three-thirty in the morning."

"You've got to come," Meli whispered, already dragging her down the corridor. "I'll explain as soon as I can."

Something in her voice must have resembled the call of duty, for Andrea became instantly alert and followed her rapidly back to the headmaster's office. On their arrival, the Auror was introduced to the very people whose daughter was of primary interest to her. What the Fells made of her even Meli couldn't say, but she certainly cut an amusing figure in her blue-and-black checked pajamas and pink bunny slippers. Her method of handling the situation as it unfolded showed her for a serious and thoughtful individual, however, so the Fells were reasonably disposed to entrust their immediate safety to her.

"They'll need to be gone by morning," Andrea stated at one point. "I can't arrange a house that soon, but . . . hm. Hold on." She tapped her watch, and the hands rearranged themselves. "It's nine-thirty in Reglan." She looked to the Fells. "Could you handle staying with the Cleaver family for a day or two?"

That earned her a blank look from the Fells; Meli sighed. "I assume you're asking if Mr. and Mrs. Fell would mind staying with the Camerons tonight?"

"Exactly." Andrea looked at the Fells. "They're British, too, and in pretty much the same boat as you. The only thing is, Reglan's a squib town."

Mr. and Mrs. Fell exchanged deadpan looks. "I don't know if we can handle that," the former said.

"Oh, but think of the havoc we could wreak," his wife answered. "And if they think we're squibs—"

"_And_ responsible adults . . . they'll never be the wiser," Mr. Fell finished. "Beautiful." He turned to Andrea and smiled his best Slytherin smile. "Thank you for your generous offer. We accept."

Andrea caught Meli's eye. "I'm getting a taste of the Skulkers, aren't I."

"You have no idea."

Dumbledore beamed. "Now that it's settled, all that remains is for you to go to Reglan." He looked shrewdly at Meli. "I trust you can see to it that no one sees them leaving the castle?"

"Naturally," she replied.

The four of them left Dumbledore's office, then Meli led the others immediately into a nearby secret passage, the existence of which surprised only Andrea. This passage took them to ground level on the opposite side of the castle from the main entrance. Nearby was the hidden entrance to another passage that took them to a depth just below the dungeons proper and positioned them somewhere just beneath the main gate. This passage also failed to surprise the Fells.

The next passage, however, was concealed by a wall like the one at Platform 9 ¾. Meli had obviously used it several times, but Mr. Fell gazed around the wand-illuminated tunnel in open wonder. "I've never seen this one!" he exclaimed.

"I have," Mrs. Fell returned smugly.

"This one will take us out to the Forbidden Forest," Meli informed them, smiling. "We can apparate from there."

A deep sigh came from Andrea's direction. "I _really_ went to the wrong school," she grumbled. "I want to be a Skulker!"

"No use crying over spilt milk," Meli replied.

"_Not_ my point."

The Fells just grinned.

As accustomed as they had grown to magical comings and goings, the Camerons were not expecting any visitors after dinner on a quiet weeknight. Charity Cameron was, therefore, justly surprised when three witches and a wizard appeared in the entryway just after she herself had entered in a much more normal fashion through the door. Andrea, grinning at Charity's stunned countenance, blithely rapped her knuckles on the inside of the closed outside door.

"Andrea!" Charity sighed in exasperation.

"What?" The Auror shrugged. "I knocked!" She turned to the Fells, her grin still in place. "Permit me to introduce Charity Cameron. Charity, these are Myrddin and Alexandra Fell."

"But Andrea—"

"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Cameron," Mr. Fell said, intercepting and shaking the hand she had flung to the side as she attempted to protest.

"That is a _lovely_ dress, dear," Mrs. Fell added, smiling brightly as she caught and shook Charity's other hand.

Charity smiled back, then caught herself and turned back to Andrea. "But why are you in your pajamas?!"

Andrea had the temerity to look surprised. "Pajamas?" She crossed her arms. "Pajamas, indeed! _All_ Aurors dress this way, thank you very much! It's very fashionable in the law-enforcement community."

"Especially when you're jolted awake at three in the morning," Meli added sardonically. "Hello, Charity. Sorry for crashing in on you, but there's a bit of an emergency, and we were hoping to enlist your family's help."

Charity blinked, but, evidently used to Andrea and Meli's oddities, nodded and showed them all into the living room. Most of the rest of the family was there. To judge by the amount and composition of the rubble near the chessboard, Daniel was soundly beating his older brother at wizard's chess. Scott was busily typing at the computer desk nearby, and Mr. Cameron was progressing steadily through Tolkien's _Unfinished Tales._ Faint clanging and clattering from the kitchen gave evidence of Mrs. Cameron's presence there.

Mr. Cameron looked up first. "Oh, hello, Andrea," he said with a smile. "Meli, welcome."

"Aunt Meli!" Scotty hollered, jumping up from the chess table.

"Hey, stupid, it's your turn!" his king shouted. "Oh, fine. _First_ you do your best to get me killed a hundred different ways, thank you very much, and _then_ you take off before the slaughter's through. I tell you, it's just plain typical!" He pulled off his crown and threw it down on the board. "That's it! I quit! I'm sick and tired of—"

"Oh, up yours!" Scotty snapped at him, then turned and hugged Meli.

Daniel smiled to himself as he shut Scotty's infuriated king securely in the piece box, then also stood to greet the new arrivals, though with far less noise than his brother had employed. By now Scott had joined them, and Mrs. Cameron had come out of the kitchen to find the source of all of the noise.

Somehow, in the midst of it all, Meli and Andrea managed to introduce everyone to everyone else (Andrea, who was still a touch disoriented, accidentally introduced Scott and Charity to one another not once but twice), and eventually the Fells' story was adequately explained.

"So if I understand correctly," Scott summarized, "you need a place to stay for a day or two, until Andrea can work her usual feats of magic and set you up with a house?"

The Fells nodded. "But if it's an imposition, we can find other accommodations," Mr. Fell assured them.

"And risk the Death Eaters finding you?" Mrs. Cameron countered. "Oh, no, you don't. You'll be staying with us."

Mrs. Fell blinked, obviously surprised at the other woman's immediate firmness. "Well, if you'd like to talk with the others—we don't want to intrude on anyone."

"There's no need for a family meeting," Scott assured her. "And the only ones who intruded or imposed were the Death Eaters who wouldn't let you be. You're quite welcome here."

The Fells exchanged looks, then nodded their assent.

"Good!" Mrs. Cameron clapped her hands. "Then all that's left is to have dessert."

After dessert, Meli was obliged to return to Hogwarts; she was due to teach in three hours and hoped for a two-hour nap first. She promised to come back that weekend to help the Fells settle in. Before she left, though, she took Scotty and Daniel aside.

"You've asked me a few times about my adventures in school," she reminded them.

Both boys nodded.

Meli grinned. "Listen to Mr. and Mrs. Fell," she advised them. "_Learn_ from them. They are the masters; I was but an unworthy student."

This counsel was greeted by a grin from Scotty and a cool, small smile from Daniel. Meli departed then, secure in the knowledge that the Fells had gained two apt and eager new apprentices in the pranking trade.

She grinned again. Charity was going to kill her.

JUNE 1986, END OF SEVENTH YEAR

All of the details had been settled, and the Skulkers were preparing to disband when a stray thought occurred to Meli. "Do you think we'll get detention for this?" she asked hopefully.

"No such luck," Collum predicted, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "After seven years of our antics, I think all the teachers are on to us."

It was true. They hadn't had a detention of any description since before Christmas, though it wasn't for lack of trying. Indeed, Crim had gone so far as to disrupt Defense Against the Dark Arts one day, risking the wrath of Professor Brood (the only teacher she slightly feared) by unleashing a cage full of pixies in the classroom and shouting, "Be free, my little ones! Dance naked on the tabletops!" She had earned a hundred point dock for Slytherin, but Brood was, indeed, on to her and had refused to issue a detention.

Meli sighed regretfully. "Too bad. We haven't had one in so long. It would be nice to finish school on a high point."

"So what are you suggesting?" Sharpie snorted. "That we _ask_ for detention?"

To his apparent dismay, Meli's eyes lit up and a broad grin overtook her face. "Give me twenty-four hours," she breathed. "I will present you with the best possible request for a detention—our last best shot at getting one."

Collum and Sharpie traded worried looks. "Why do I feel as though I should be terrified?" the former asked in an undertone. Sharpie just shook his head.

"By all means, Meli, write it up," Crim said with a grin. "I, for one, can hardly wait."

True to her word, Meli had her masterpiece written out by the following afternoon. In fact, she had found time to make out four copies, all neatly printed on staff paper, complete with clefs and time signature.

Sharpie examined his copy, then lowered it again with a stunned look on his face. "I _don't_ want to know how you came up with this."

"Billy Joel would be honored," Crim said reverently. "I _highly _approve." She smiled like a pit viper. "On one condition."

Meli looked narrowly at her. "What condition?" she asked cautiously.

"_You_ do lead vocals."

"I'm not doing lead vocals again."

"Your voice is higher than Crim's," Collum pointed out. "It'll be more obnoxious with a higher voice." He grinned. "Though it _is_ pretty obnoxious already."

Sharpie cleared his throat. "Has it occurred to anyone else that this routine will actually make it _less_ likely that we'll receive detention?" he asked pointedly.

Meli shook her head. "Snape'll come through."

"Hogsmeade weekend tomorrow," Collum pointed out. "I _was_ planning on a spree at Zonko's—been saving up for months—but I've got a better idea."

Crim, catching his drift, nodded enthusiastically. "Perfect!" she crowed. "And if Snape _doesn't _come through for some reason, you get to keep it—provided you share, of course."

"You're all about conditions today, aren't you?" Sharpie snickered.

"I'm _not_ singing lead!" Meli growled. "They'll think I'm trying to monopolize the limelight, or that I'm the ringleader!"

The others looked at her, deadpan. Then the twins simultaneously broke silence, Crim saying, "Well, don't you?" as Collum said, "Well, aren't you?"

"You're not helping, Sharpie!" Meli grumbled as he fell to the floor laughing.

Crim clapped her on the shoulder. "If it's your reputation you're worried about, we'll rearrange the tarnish appropriately and as needed." She leaned in close and smiled. "But in the meantime, you're singing lead."

The morning after their final late-night venture, the Skulkers gathered one last time outside the doors to the Great Hall. They were ten minutes late for breakfast and twenty minutes late for the spectacle of Flint being freed from his duct tape bonds, but that was as they had planned it. Nearly all of the teachers and students were at breakfast now; the time for their grand finale had come.

Aided by an odd little spell he had picked up somewhere or other, Sharpie successfully slammed open the doors to the Great Hall, drawing every eye to the doorway in which the Skulkers stood, arms linked in a manner reminiscent of _The Wizard of Oz_. Meli took a deep breath and, with the others supplying background harmony, began to sing, all four of them skipping of the center of the Hall in rhythm with the music.

Finding ways to tick our teachers off  
Doesn't keep us occupied enough.  
We've really planned—  
We've engineered some quite impressive pranks—  
But no detention for the longest time.

Oooh, no detention for the longest time.  
Oooh, no detention for the longest time.

Anyone who's lived in Hufflepuff  
Knows we haven't been penalized enough—

Here she had to pause until the thunderous applause from the Hufflepuff table fully died down. She then blithely continued:

Poor Prof McGonagall  
Prob'ly wants to thrash us all, but  
She has not detained us for the longest time.

Make us write some lame essays, please,  
Or on hands and knees  
Scrub the floor of the Great Hall.  
All the Skulkers' homework is done.  
We need something fun,   
And we can't go play paintball.

Now the background harmony provided by Collum, Crim, and Sharpie turned slow and halting, as though they could hardly hold back tears. Meli also slowed her pace and even paused at irregular intervals to sniffle loudly.

We're afraid we're losing our touch,  
Ready for re-Sorting into Hufflepuff.  
Professor Snape, we beg you—  
We'll buy you a whole keg if you  
Give us our first detention in the longest time!

Now Crim broke in to call out, "Everyone, sing it with us!" Only a few, mostly upperclassmen from the Gryffindor table, obliged.

Oooh, first detention in the longest time.  
Oooh, first detention in the longest time.  
Oooh, for the longest time!

The end of the song was swallowed up by boos from Slytherin and hearty applause from Gryffindor. Most of the Ravenclaws cast disapproving eyes on the Skulkers, and the Hufflepuffs were obviously of differing opinions. Most of the teachers looked on in open-mouthed shock, with the notable exceptions of Dumbledore, whose eyes twinkled with overflowing mirth; McGonagall, who glared at them in open annoyance; and Snape, who was smirking.

The hubbub eventually died down, but the Skulkers remained rooted to their spot, looking up at the head table in comical expectation. Snape now stood, crossing his arms, and strode out from behind the table and towards them. Dead silence swept through the hall, and even the Slytherins were suddenly holding their breath.

Snape stopped perhaps five paces from the Skulkers, who stood with their arms still linked, and regarded them coolly for a moment. They'd had the better part of a week to prepare for this confrontation, though, and none of them so much as broke into a sweat beneath his scrutiny.

"Miss Ebony, Miss Fell, Mr. Fell, and Mr. Pierce," he said at last, the hall's acoustics amplifying his voice for all to hear, "will please report to my office immediately after dinner this evening to serve a thoroughly disagreeable detention."

Meli smiled hawkishly. "And what about points, sir?" she asked.

There was a subtle, unpleasant stirring from the Gryffindor table; the competition for the House Cup was particularly stiff this year. A point deduction anywhere could ensure a Slytherin victory; indeed, that House currently held a five-point lead.

Snape's eyes narrowed in amusement. "If I took away from Gryffindor in such a public setting and in front of the esteemed Professor McGonagall, I would be obliged to take away from Slytherin, as well," he pointed out. "Why don't you just serve your detention and call it even?"

Meli curtsied very prettily. "Very well, sir."

The Skulkers had arrived at their first Snape-administered detention with an air of meek repentance. They arrived at their final one with a distinctly festive attitude and toting a keg of butterbeer, which Collum immediately presented to their surprised and amused disciplinarian.

"We are pranksters of our word, sir," he said, grinning.

Snape arched an eyebrow. "And if I had not given you a detention, what then?"

"Party at Fell's, sir," Sharpie replied, deadpan.

"It's quite fortuitous that we think so far ahead," Crim added, her tone and countenance identical. "Wouldn't you say, sir?"

Snape came close to smiling, but the lapse was only momentary; the look passed almost immediately. "I must confess, I've had some difficulty in deciding what to subject you to," he told them. "I've narrowed the possibilities down to two; you'll have to decide for yourselves which is preferable."

All four Skulkers assumed comical listening poses, which Snape dutifully ignored. "You may scrub out—_no magic—_the bedpans in the hospital wing. Since there are no patients there, you'll be able to chatter and sing to your hearts' content. However, since there have been no patients there for some time, and since Malvina Anderkoil served detention last week, the bedpans are already quite clean, so even if you take your time, you'll be finished by one in the morning."

Crim made a face. "Could be worse, I suppose," she commented. "What's the other choice?"

"Your other option," Snape replied, "is to dust every book in the philosophy section of the library. However, although Madame Pince will be safely out of your way, the task may well require you to work at it for a day or more." He smirked. "Straight through."

The Skulkers exchanged glances amongst themselves, communicating entirely with their eyes. The preferred task was, of course, the library, but the prospect of working straight through for days put a bit of a damper on things.

"You could, of course, do it in installments," Snape offered smoothly. "Work until morning, then return each night until you've finished . . ."

Meli looked shrewdly at him. "Why, sir, that's positively kind of you!"

The Potions master smirked. "Never let it be said that a keg of butterbeer goes unrewarded," he replied dryly.

PRESENT: LATE FEBERUARY

Meli left shortly after her final class Friday evening and apparated directly to Reglan, arriving before lunch Friday morning. The Camerons' house was a beehive of activity, but its inhabitants weren't so busy that no one noticed Meli's appearance on the scene. Indeed, she received a warning smile from Alexandra Fell, then she was nearly flattened by Charity Cameron.

"Meli Ebony, Socrates was forced to drink hemlock for what you've done!"

Meli arched an eyebrow. "Apparently, I'm somehow guilty of corrupting the youth," she observed dryly. "What brought this on?"

Charity glared at her. "Daniel and Scotty forked their teachers' lawns!"

"Were they caught?" Meli asked blithely.

"No—"

"Then how do you know it was them?"

"Mrs. Becker and Miss Hart were both forked on the same night," Charity snapped. "We're the only family with students in both their classes and none in anyone else's."

Meli sighed feelingly even as she caught grins from both of the Fells, who stood conveniently behind Charity. "Even _if_ the boys are the culprits," she said wearily, "which I consider unproved, I find it very uncharitable to blame me."

"Well, who else _would_ have given them the idea?" Charity demanded. "You're the former Skulker, and I seem to recall you mentioning forking once or twice."

"My dear Charity, I have _never_ forked anyone's lawn. Had I given out ideas, I would have recommended flossing the teachers' trees instead." She smirked. "And as for my being a former

Skulker . . . there's no such thing. Once a Skulker, always a Skulker—just like the Marines, but with fewer muscles and more intelligence."

Charity eyed her distrustfully, but Meli had been a Skulker for far too long to let even the barest trace of dishonesty shine in her eyes, though it could be said to shine in her soul. Pranksters protected their own—even when their own were sloppy enough to leave circumstantial evidence of their identities. If Scotty and Daniel hadn't learned their lesson, the Fells could still be trusted to pound it into them before the next late-night adventure.

Still, for a first strike, the Cameron brothers' feat was impressive.

"Look," Meli sighed. "If it'll make you feel better, I'll take the boys aside tonight and explain to them the error of their ways, assuming it _was_ their error."

"Just be sure to make the point clear," Charity said through her teeth.

Inwardly, Meli grinned. "_Quite_ clear," she promised.

She spent the day helping Andrea move the Fells into their new house, which was conveniently located two doors down from the Camerons'. In hiding the Camerons, Andrea had had to make several days' worth of arrangement in about twenty hours' time, but since the Fells had temporary lodgings for the moment, she had been able to move at a more reasonable pace with them. In Meli's absence, she had forged new identities and obtained American citizenship for the couple, as well as finding and claiming the house into which they were now slowly moving. Meli accompanied them to the furniture store and to several clothing shops, more for moral support than to offer any helpful input; the Fells were the ones who had to live with the results, after all.

In this way, the day passed quickly—again—and Meli found herself faced with the task of explaining to Scotty and Daniel the grave error they had committed. Fortunately, she had specified that she would be taking them aside, so she had few worries about removing them from Charity's hearing. And, since she was a firm believer in mixing business with pleasure whenever possible, Meli took the boys out for pie. Once the waitress departed after dropping off their orders, and once Scotty had relieved Meli of the whipped cream on her key lime pie, she looked very seriously at the boys. Scotty had the temerity to look nervous; Daniel just stared measuringly back at her.

"Your mother told me about your . . . recent adventure," she told them.

"Adventure?" Scotty echoed, managing to sound almost, but not quite, innocent.

Meli bestowed upon him a small, reptilian smirk. "You discovered a more than usually creative use for common dining implements," she clarified. "At night and in gardens not belonging to your house."

"Oh." Daniel nodded once, unrepentantly. "That adventure."

"Your mother is under the misimpression that I'm somehow responsible," Meli went on, "and that, therefore, you're both on a swift path to Hell, with or without the benefit of a handbasket." She cleared her throat. "So I have taken it upon myself to educate you. I'm sure your more immediate teachers would be happy to go over this with you, but I have the advantage of longer acquaintance."

Scotty choked on a bit of French silk; Daniel leaned back to watch Meli, then took a long, unconcerned sip of his milk.

"You've had a few days to think this over," Meli continued smoothly. "What did you do wrong?"

"We vandalized two lawns," Scotty answered glumly. "And we used up all of the forks Mum was saving for Dan's birthday."

Daniel sighed and looked disdainfully at him. "Did you notice this is Aunt Meli we're talking to?" he asked testily. "Meli, not Mum." He turned back to their interrogator. "We successfully hit two targets the same night, but we hit them in the same way, allowing them to figure out who was responsible."

Meli nodded. "Very good," she replied. "Given the chance to do it again, how would you have carried out your attack?"

"I would fork Mrs. Becker," Daniel said immediately. "Then, three days later, TP Mr. Johnson. _Then_, a month or so later, floss Miss Hart and Mr. Cairns."

Scotty frowned. "But Mr. Johnson and Mr. Cairns aren't our teachers."

Daniel sighed patiently, an amusing thing to see in a nine year-old. "But Charlie's in Mr. Johnson's class, and his sisters are in with the other three," he explained. "So they'd get blamed, not us."

"Very good," Meli said approvingly. "How, then, would you salvage this current situation?"

The brothers traded shrewd looks. "This weekend, we TP Mr. Johnson and Mr. Cairns," Scotty answered slowly. "And next week, we floss Miss Roberts and . . . Mr. Collins."

"Then we stop for three or four months," Daniel added.

"Good," Meli told them. "Even better would be to TP Mr. Johnson and Mr. Collins, then later on floss Mr. Cairns and Miss Roberts. That way, even if Charlie's family can't be blamed, it'll be written off as completely random."

Daniel smiled slowly. "Does Mum know you're telling us this?"

"She knows that I'm pointing out to you the error of your ways," Meli allowed. "I may have neglected to specify which error I planned to address, of course."

"You know what, Aunt Meli?" Scotty said after a moment. "You're really cool."

"Particularly in winter," she replied dryly. "However, I expect both of you to be appropriately meek and repentant when we go home tonight. Pranksters cover for each other, but they also cover for themselves."

Daniel set aside his empty glass and clean plate. "I'm so guilt-ridden I couldn't even finish my blueberry pie," he said sardonically.

"Me, too," Scotty added, shoving the last bite of his pie into his mouth.

Meli smiled broadly. "You both show definite promise," she said, turning her attention to her own pie.


	31. More Errands in London

****

Chapter 31: More Errands in London

PRESENT: EARLY MARCH

It was, Meli had learned, a trait of friends that they could perceive one another's stress levels, whatever camouflage might be applied thereto. It was a trait of true friends that, when people and circumstances permitted, they moved to counter stress levels that rose too high in another.

She was not incredibly surprised, therefore, that, shortly after Andrea's final departure from Hogwarts, one of her friends still at Hogwarts perceived that stress had made her stir-crazy and took steps to address the problem. The friend in question was Zarekael, and his suggested course of action was not exactly what she would have expected.

"You want me to take you back to Muggle London?" she said, stunned. "In heaven's name, _why_ would you want to go back there?"

Zarekael was amused. "I believe the last joint expedition was, at least initially, more unpleasant for you," he replied. "And perhaps if this expedition is shorter, with only one or two stops, it would be more pleasant for both of us.

"All right," Meli conceded. "And what one or two stops do you have in mind?"

"I would like to go to a music store." Zarekael's expression had taken a subtle turn towards rueful. "'Boom' has been stuck in my head for months, and I'd like to replace it with something else."

Meli felt her eyebrows nearly meet her widow's peak. "You've had 'Boom' stuck in your head this whole time?" she breathed, horrified. "That's . . . six months!" Her brows came in for a landing once more in an expression of comical sympathy. "I had no idea. Too much of anything, even P.O.D., is bad for the sanity." She nodded. "All right, I'll take you to Tower Records. If we go in the evening, Picadilly Circus shouldn't be _so_ crowded." Her expression cleared as another idea occurred to her. "And it's not terribly far from the Indian restaurant we went to before. We could go there first, if you'd like, then walk to Charing Cross and take the tube."

To judge by Zarekael's carefully neutral countenance, he didn't know Charing Cross from Canterbury, but he nodded his agreement to the scheme.

"Will you need to borrow another set of Muggle clothes?" Meli asked.

Zarekael shook his head. "No, thank you," he replied. "Having seen how Muggles dress, I believe I can approximate an outfit from my wardrobe."

"While you're approximating," Meli said dryly, "you might try for something that'll address your...er, lady problem."

He did better than approximate, as it happened—alarmingly better. Indeed, Meli's second coherent thought after opening the door to admit him was that somewhere he had found the time to do some very interesting research. She had no later memory of her _first_ coherent thought, but it was accompanied by widened eyes and lightheadedness.

"Well," she remarked, after a very long pause, "you'll have no problem keeping the ladies away this time."

There before her stood Zarekael, dressed in the red-and-black cassock and closed collar of a Catholic cardinal. He had even found or made by transfiguration a gold cross.

"Nor will there be any doubt about you being a vampire," she added, stepping aside and inviting him in.

Something in her voice must have attracted Monty's attention, for as she followed Zarekael out of the entryway, the python slid out of his favorite chair and came around for a look. Monty glanced at him, did a double-take, stared openly, then whirled and slithered into Meli's bedroom as fast as he could go.

Meli smirked. "Please forgive Monty's behavior," she said, then raising her voice for the python's benefit, added, "He has fond remembrances of Luther's Ninety-Five Theses."

There followed a loud crash form the direction in which Monty had departed, and Meli surmised that he had tipped one of her bookshelves. In truth, he was not the first familiar she'd had who took an interest in religious matters; Casita had been heavily into yoga and transcendental meditation, then, shortly before her death, had made a radical U-turn and gone in for Dutch Reformed theology. Monty, by contrast, had always been, as far as Meli knew, a solid Papist. Indeed, he had hissed out nastier invectives against Martin Luther, Ulrich Zwingli, and John Calvin than he had ever voiced against Voldemort (which was, admittedly, saying something).

She turned back to Zarekael and found that he had already charmed away his closed collar and taken off the cross, the only alterations necessary (aside from removing and returning to its original form the cassock, of course) to make his clothing both Muggle and secular.

"A small joke, for your benefit only," he replied in answer to her questioning look as he removed the cassock. "I do not believe it would be appropriate for me to go out like this."

Meli smiled. "Well, perhaps I can help you in avoiding female fawning anyway," she said. "If I match my look a bit more to yours this time, they'll be less likely to come after you." With that, she excused herself and, after a short stop at her wardrobe, disappeared into her bedroom. Monty had indeed overturned the shorter of her two bookshelves, so she turned to the desk chair where he was coiled and sulking.

"I expect this to be cleaned up by the time I get back tonight," she told him coolly. "And I would also like to point out that I take it with much more grace when you make snide comments about my being a Calvinist Protestant. Perhaps I should vandalize your cage next time." She was in the bathroom with the door closed before he could give any reply.

She emerged fifteen minutes later and presented herself for comment. She still wore black, but there was a lot more of it, accompanied by, of all things foreign to her, lace. She hadn't done anything with her hair, but she had charmed her fingernails black and done her eye shadow and lipstick to match. Her black eyeliner was thick enough that her eyes nearly stood out from her head. And, topping off the full ensemble, she wore a black leather dog collar with silver spikes.

To his credit, Zarekael made no initial reaction, though he seemed to be highly amused. After a short moment of silence, however, he arched an inquisitive eyebrow and asked the most obvious question: "And what manner of jacket or cloak would one wear with that?"

Meli thought for a moment before coming up with an answer. _It's not exactly something I ever thought I'd show anyone, much less wear . . . but he knows me well enough._ "Well," she said aloud. "I have a likely candidate." She turned and stepped once more to her wardrobe. "Do you have a cloak that could be altered to look something like this?"

She brought it out: a black cloak with a deep hood, now far too small for her without a bit of alteration. Even before she held it up, Zarekael paled visibly.

_I don't understand. He had to know I'd have this. He's a—_She swallowed. _Right. He has one, too. He's a Death Eater._

Not missing a beat, however, Zarekael nodded.

Meli kept her tone light, for the benefit of Monty, who surely took in every word that was said. "Shall we stop by your rooms to pick it up, then?"

He nodded again, and they left Monty to his cleanup.

Zarekael disappeared into his bedroom to retrieve his hidden cloak, and while he was gone, Meli altered her own, draping it across the back of one of his fireside chairs. She broadened the shoulders and lengthened it considerably, reflecting on how much she had grown in seventeen years. As a last touch, she removed the hood; it could be easily put back, and she was suddenly acutely aware that she didn't want to be caught with anything resembling a Death Eater's cloak anywhere around Hogwarts.

Their entry to Zarekael's rooms had caused a few torches to light themselves. They were spread out at even, though long, intervals around the main room, but they did not give enough light to illuminate it fully. There was adequate light where she stood, but the walls were draped in overlapping layers of shadows thrown by the flames. Her work completed for the moment, Meli stood aside and faced the doorway to the bedroom, waiting.

When he emerged, the shadows played over his face in a manner somehow reminiscent of shadows on masks at the Death Eater gatherings she had attended as a child. He seemed suddenly wraithlike, a threatening apparition stepping out of the past, a well-remembered cloak in hand.

She forced herself neither to swallow nor to step back, but her struggle to remain in place was evident. Zarekael paused, looking uncertain. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked quietly. "Knowing is one thing; seeing evidence is quite another."

And in that question she found a firm foundation on which to stand. Compared with all that she had seen of Death Eaters before, this was nothing. Zarekael was her friend, and what she knew in the present should be more than enough to defeat the ghosts of the past. In any case, no Death Eater, then or since, had ever harmed her.

"I've seen Severus," she reminded him. _In full regalia, no less,_ she added silently. _Just the cloak should be nothing_.

"I'm not Severus," he countered mildly.

_But _I'm_ stubborn, and the more you protest, the greater my resolve!_ "But you're both my friends," she said firmly.

He looked measuringly at her for a moment, then nodded. "How should I alter it?" he asked.

"I've removed the hood," she replied, breathing easily once more. "That should be enough to get past anyone we run into; a lot of wizards and witches have black cloaks."

The did not run into anyone, though. By design, they departed the school during dinner and so avoided contact with either students or faculty. About halfway down the road to Hogsmeade, they replaced their hoods and prepared to apparate. Before they went, however, Meli darted a look up at Zarekael.

"Could I ask a small favor?"

He met her eyes and nodded. "Yes."

She managed a smile. "Could you not . . . wear your hood up?" It was an admission of defeat, which she did not like to make, but even now the past held some sway over her. There was wisdom, and no shame, in admitting to that and acting accordingly.

"Of course," Zarekael replied, and she read in his eyes that he understood perfectly.

To Meli's knowledge, the Indian restaurant near Charing Cross had never been extremely busy. It had enough patrons to thrive as a business, but she had never had a problem getting a table. Nevertheless, she had called ahead for reservations the day before, and that odd little whim now proved fortuitous.

By himself, Zarekael did not look overly outlandish. His primary oddities were his height and his unusual eyes, neither of which could be helped; the cloak might also be considered odd, but not outlandishly so. Meli, no the other hand, was obviously someone that they might have refused to seat. It was not a fancy restaurant by any means, but even casual establishments had their standards, and spiked dog collars and black lipstick were evidently in violation.

Meli, observing this at once, smiled, gave the name of their reservation, then added, with a sardonic smile, "Do you have a dark corner?"

The gentleman seating them smiled weakly, then led them to the darkest table in the place, which also happened to be furthest from the front windows.

Once the waiter had taken their drink orders and scurried away, Zarekael arched an inquisitive eyebrow. "Drayson?" he asked, repeating the name under which Meli had made their reservation.

She offered him a cool smile in return. "A certain individual of our mutual acquaintance has a nasty habit of checking reservation logs," she replied. "It wouldn't do for that certain individual to notice that I dined with a friend. He might start asking questions." She shrugged. "I'm paranoid; hence the pseudonym."

"Ah."

Dinner was thoroughly uneventful, and Meli's only regret was that the house elves at Hogwarts could not make even a decent imitation of good lamb curry. She was careful to leave a generous tip, partly as an apology for her appearance, but mostly in appreciation of the food.

They stepped out onto the pavement, and Zarekael turned to her, obviously about to say something. His brow furrowed, though. "Your . . . collar . . . fell off," he observed.

"No way." Meli put her hands to her throat, but it was, indeed, gone. _How could it have fallen off without my noticing?! It's not exactly a fine silver chain!_ Her Skulker's instinct for drama kicked in, though, and she gave him a mock-panicked look. "It's gone!" She splayed her hands over her neck and glanced from side to side. "Why, I feel absolutely naked without it! I'll be back." She ducked back into the restaurant.

For something so conspicuous, the thing had done an excellent job of hiding itself. After several minutes of fruitless searching, she crawled under the table and whispered, _"Lumos."_ A faint ray of light came from her right sleeve, where her wand lay concealed. With that invaluable aid, she found the collar immediately. She snatched it, snuffed her wand, then made the most graceful possible exit.

She stepped onto the pavement once more, occupied with fastening the collar and muttering viciousness against it. It was only then that she noticed that Zarekael was not alone.

There in front of him stood a gooey-eyed young woman about five years Meli's junior. Somehow she had gotten a hold of Zarekael's hand and would not release it; though her eyes were fastened on his face in rapt attention, she was completely ignorant of the expression of discomfiture he wore.

Meli was not a professional actress, but she knew a stage cue when she saw one. "What's this?" she asked, making no effort to mask her only partially-manufactured disdain.

The other woman glanced at Meli, then came back for a good, long, horrified stare, accompanied by numerous gulps; Meli smiled evilly.

"She ran into me," Zarekael explained long-sufferingly. "I helped her up."

Meli made a show of looking her over from crown to toe. "Nice lipstick," she said at last. "It's very . . . pink."

The woman looked as though she might faint in terror, then, at the last second, she changed her mind and made a break for freedom as fast as her designer pumps would allow.

"Prep," Meli muttered, borrowing from Andrea's slang. Once the woman rounded the corner at the end of the block, she turned to Zarekael in exasperation. "What _is_ it with you?" she demanded.

"I'm tall, dark, and handsome," he replied, deadpan. "You said so yourself."

It was a fairly short, pleasant—which is to say, uneventful—walk to Charing Cross. There they entered the tube station and encountered their next hurdle: the ticket dispenser. Meli, having lived among Muggles for years, knew quite well how to manage both the currency and the technology; Zarekael, however, preferred to learn firsthand by purchasing his own pass, rather than by watching her buy two. Meli, who had exchanged his money for him, obligingly handed over first a wad of notes, then a handful of coins, then she stood to the side to watch him work.

Zarekael pocketed the notes, then frowned over the many and varied coins. "Why is it that they have so many different kinds?" he asked in an undertone. "Three are quite sufficient for us."

Meli smirked. "We have to remember all manner of charms and hexes," she replied dryly, so softly that only his inhumanly sharp ears had any hope of hearing. "They don't. Muggles need _something_ to keep track of."

With some effort, Zarekael sorted out the proper amount and obtained his pass, and then he and Meli made their way through the gates and down to the tracks on the Bakerloo Line.

"What sort of name is 'Picadilly Circus'?" Zarekael inquired, furrowing his brow as if in protest at having to utter those objectionable syllables.

"I'm not entirely sure," Meli answered. "I never bothered to look into the etymology of it."

"And 'Bakerloo'," he continued. "It sounds so . . . wrong."

Meli raised her eyebrows. "Even bakers have to use the loo," she told him. "I can't tell you why the people of London thought one noteworthy enough to name a tube line after it, but apparently they did."

Zarekael had no immediate counter-reply for that pun, other than a subtle narrowing of his eyes.

Upon reaching the platform, Meli had just enough time to explain the meaning of "Mind the Gap" before their train arrived. The station was moderately populated, the car they entered less so. At the far end, there sat a rosy-cheeked grandmotherly woman with her knitting, and near her stood a group of four men in their mid-twenties, all dressed for a night at the pub or some like entertainment. Nearer at hand sat a young couple who stood and moved to seats further down the car as soon as Meli and Zarekael appeared on the scene. Meli smirked, but she made no move to deter them.

She turned instead to Zarekael with a smile and launched into an off-the-cuff monologue intended purely for her and Zarekael's amusement, and others' alarm: "So my mother and I had a delightful time at her Victorian tea. My cousins just _loved_ my reading. Even though Jane Austen wasn't strictly period, Mum loves my interpretation of Mr. Collins' proposal so much that she asked me to read it anyway. And I finally had an excuse to wear my new pink dress—you know, the one with the ruffles and the chiffon—"

Meli broke off then as she belatedly realized that, although he had been listening, Zarekael had not been listening to _her_. His attention was instead fixed on the group of young men at the far end of the car, whose conversation, she now noticed, had started to elicit disapproving glares from the elderly woman. It wasn't loud enough for her to pick up on more than isolated words, but Zarekael's hearing surpassed even Crimson Fell's in acuity.

She could not guess at how long the conversation had been going on, but clearly whatever they were saying had worn Zarekael's patience down to nothing. Bare seconds after she stopped her idle prattling, he reached the end of his endurance and crossed the car in two strides. To his credit, his assault was entirely verbal, but Meli saw the men shake in sudden nervousness at his approach.

"You _don't_ speak that way of a lady," Zarekael snapped, his voice even but showing strain. "No matter how she may be dressed or how inattentive she may seem."

Meli restrained herself from looking down; she knew without seeing that she was modestly dressed, showing very little skin below her neck. Their discussion must therefore have concerned her general proportions, which, while not actively displayed by her apparel, were also not actively concealed by it.

Zarekael wasn't finished, though. His irritation was not fully vented by his rebuke, and the fervent, jerking nods of the men before him did not completely mollify him, either. He followed up with a stream of words that had no root in any language any present had ever encountered, but which Meli took to be some variety of profanity from his plane. After he had fully finished this spiel, he turned from them with a final glare, then looked to the elderly lady, to whom he apologized for his "French". He then returned to stand beside Meli once more. His withdrawal from the young men's vicinity did nothing to reduce their sickly pallor or obvious need for adult-sized nappies (or, for my fellow Americans, Huggies).

_And they say that chivalry lives only in Gryffindor and certain dark corners of Hufflepuff,_ Meli thought sardonically. _The poster boy of Slytherin House has just offered the latest proof that they, whoever "they" might be, are completely mistaken._

She was ordinarily resentful of chivalry, particularly when she was its object; she had not studied multiple martial arts and learned hundreds of nasty hexes for the pure fun of it. Still, while she prided herself in her ability to take care of herself, she was most appreciative of friends who were willing to stand up for her—particularly when it was accompanied by such humorous displays as the one now before her.

"An interesting treatment," she remarked to Zarekael. She carefully modulated her voice so that the quaking foursome could hear her. "You were far nicer than I would have been. In my humble opinion, the best use for pigs is roasting." She casually drew from her pocket a silver lighter, which she flipped open and flicked on, grinning like Mad Emily the entire time. Not surprisingly, the pigs in question didn't speak another word until the train stopped and Meli and Zarekael departed.

On their arrival to Tower Records, Zarekael demonstrated that his sense of humor had been in no way damaged by the incident on the train. He walked over to the first clerk in sight, stopped dead in front of her, and narrowed his eyes in an approximation of a smile. "What kind of music do you think I'd like?" he asked without preamble.

To her credit, the clerk was not thrown off-balance for long, and in no time at all she had deposited Zarekael and Meli in the industrial section.

"Thank you," Meli said politely. "I think we can manage from here." Once the clerk was gone, she turned to Zarekael and smirked. "I don't think she got it quite right. Why don't we find a listening station, and I'll bring you different music?"

Zarekael having no objection to this course, they followed it, and Zarekael soon found himself sitting next to a growing stack of CDs. Meli flitted between a number of different sections of the store, with the result that the stack included, but was not limited to: Enya, Linkin Park, the Monkees, System of a Down, Kitaro, Disturbed, the Doors, the Verve, and the Beatles. All of these (and more) Zarekael sorted through and listened to with a peculiar mixture of fascination and amusement. He seemed to like System of a Down, though the Beatles puzzled and amused him ("Why does he think he's a walrus?" he asked at one point).

Meli, in the meantime, had a great deal of fun running around and picking out the strangest possible assortment of CDs. She drew odd and even alarmed looks during her brief dash through the pop music rows, though she was unwilling to lower herself to pick up a boy band or Britney disc. Most of what she picked out was music that she thought Zarekael would actually enjoy, but she couldn't resist throwing a Weird Al CD into the mix. Zarekael obligingly endured the first five minutes of "Albuquerque" before she took pity on him and handed over the next disc in the stack.

This one happened to be the soundtrack from Cirque du Soleil's _Alegría_, of which Zarekael's music had reminded Meli six months earlier. She selected the first track, then pushed play . . . and then something a little odd happened.

Zarekael actually appeared to enjoy the music for a few measures, until about the point at which the singing began. Then his eyes widened a touch, and he pushed stop and removed the headphones. "No," was all he said as he ejected the disc and handed it back to Meli.

She kept her expression neutral as she replaced the CD in its case and passed him _Hybrid Theory_, but her curiosity was piqued, and she was a little concerned. The _style_ of the music shouldn't be a problem, nor should the lyrics—they were in Spanish, and in any case he couldn't have heard more than the first half-dozen words. _There must be something wrong with the singer's voice, then,_ she concluded. _I don't mind it, but Zarekael's ears are more sensitive than mine. Poor guy—to have a good song marred by an objectionable voice._

Having come to that conclusion, she never thought another thing about it.

At the end of a pleasant couple of hours, Zarekael made a few selections (among them _Toxicity_), which he carefully paid for—not as much of a challenge as it might have been had he not sorted out his coins and notes once already that night. Meli drew a mystified look from the clerk when she presented for purchase her own selections: Mozart's violin concertos, Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, and the soundtrack from _Die Hard._

Meli smirked. "I don't always wear a dog collar," she said, by way of explanation.

The clerk raised a bewildered eyebrow, parted with a nonplused half-smile, and rang the purchases without comment.

They walked back down to the tube station, but they never boarded a train. Instead, they proceeded to a designated apparating area and departed by less conventional means, arriving on the road to Hogsmeade shortly thereafter.

"You said that _Alegría_ was a soundtrack," Zarekael recalled suddenly, as they strode towards Hogwarts. "What is it a soundtrack to?"

The question, coming from left field as it seemed, took Meli by surprise. "Aah . . ." she murmured, then cleared her throat. "It's for a program by Cirque du Soleil, which is a sort of . . . hm." She frowned. "It's difficult to explain. They tell a story through music, dance, acrobatics—and I'm doing a lousy job of describing it. You'd really have to see it to understand."

"I believe I've seen something like it," Zarekael said softly. "There is something similar on my plane."

He was silent for the remainder of the walk home, and it seemed to Meli that he was a little saddened.

_Somehow, he never struck me as the type to be homesick,_ Meli thought. _But even Zarekael's not immune to it, apparently._


	32. Further Complications

****

Chapter 32: Further Complications

PRESENT: MID-APRIL

Had Meli valued her sanity, she would probably have stopped reading the _Daily Prophet_ after Voldemort's return—or, if not then, certainly after she had discovered the nature and extent of Snape and Zarekael's deep cover activities. She considered her sanity a loss, though, so there was really no point in attempting to preserve it. Then something happened that almost caused her to think better of that decision.

"MINISTRY HIT!" the headline screamed at her in six-inch type. What was left of the front page was devoted to a shocking account of Voldemort's latest attack, which had killed Cornelius Fudge and most of his cabinet with a single blow. Only four ministers had escaped: Lucius Malfoy, who was out of town for a relative's funeral; Arthur Weasley; and the heads of the Department of Aurors and the Department of Mysteries. The last two had left the room just before it was destroyed in an explosion; Weasley had been still on his way to the meeting, which had been scheduled to start three minutes later. Preliminary reports indicated that the explosion had been caused by a mail bomb dropped by an owl.

Meli's credulity with regards to Voldemort's temerity was greater than average, but even she reeled in disbelief at this. In principle, the plan was quite simple, but actually carrying it out, and with such a great success . . . that was something other. It required a great deal of coordination, probably between a half dozen different Death Eaters (at the minimum), and complete secrecy. Given that Voldemort could not trust all of the necessary people, it was entirely possible that only _he_ had known everything involved in the plan—perhaps including the timing of the actual attack—in order to prevent intelligence leaks.

She shook her head. It was possible, of course, and even probable, but it was one more sign that he was bolder and more confident than ever before.

_Did Severus or Zarekael know this was coming?_ she wondered, but after a moment of consideration, she again shook her head. In this case, she didn't have nearly enough information to come to a conclusion, and she most certainly was _not_ going to ask. Since the bomb could have been created using any number of delicate potions, it was entirely possible that one or both of them had been involved and had lacked the appropriate information or opportunity to report on it, but she knew as much now as, in all likelihood, she would ever know.

Her eyes drifted to the Gryffindor table, where all four Weasleys were huddled together over a copy of the newspaper. Ginny shuddered at one point, and Ron put a comforting hand on her shoulder; their father had escaped, after all—but only just barely. As other paper-subscribing students read the front page, murmurs broke out, then slowly crescendoed to a roar.

Dumbledore stood and called the student body to order. His announcement was easily predicted, and Meli was not disappointed: Classes were canceled for the day.

_Not all that surprising, really. We wouldn't have accomplished anything academic anyway._

** **

PRESENT: MID-APRIL, ONE WEEK LATER

Monty's nap was disturbed by the sound of shattering glass. He shot his head up over the arm of the reading chair and found that Meli was whimpering over a broken vial. Whatever liquid had been in it was splashed across the stone floor in front of the work table; Meli herself had ducked into the space between the table and the wall. She was huddled up as if in fear.

"What'ss wrong?" he hissed, sliding down from the chair and darting towards her.

She seemed not to hear him. The whimpering continued, then mingled with tears.

Whatever she'd spilt must have had some strange, adverse effect on her. Even had Monty been able to help, he was no potions genius; he had no idea what the liquid was or how to counteract it. He would have to summon assistance.

Fortunately, Meli and Dumbledore had planned for such a situation. She kept a summoning mirror within the python's reach on one of her bookshelves, and its companion lay always on Dumbledore's desk. Monty had been about to use it once the previous November, but the headmaster had come before he'd had to, knowing somehow about Meli's seizure. Dumbledore was not here now, though, so Monty slid over to the shelf and hissed, "Albus Dumbledore." The mirror, which Meli had had the foresight to program in Parseltongue, connected him immediately.

Here Monty ran into a problem. He could understand perfectly Dumbledore's inquiry, but Dumbledore could not understand his reply. After several seconds of trying to explain the situation and failing, Monty resorted to playing Lassie, jerking his head in Meli's direction, then sliding out of the mirror's view, then returning to repeat the process. If only he could . . . No. He didn't know if someone was with Dumbledore just then, and Meli would kill him in any case. Whether or not this got the point across, once Monty fell silent, Dumbledore could hear Meli, who was now sobbing and occasionally whimpering, "No. Please, no."

"I'll come down immediately," the headmaster promised quickly, then the mirror went blank. Less than a minute later, there was a noise from the fireplace, and Monty turned to see Dumbledore stepping out of it and around the worktable.

He paused briefly to examine the spilled liquid, then looked over at Monty. "Don't worry about the spill," he said quietly. "It's just an infusion of willow bark." He took two steps further and came face-to-face with Meli.

Her manner was more agitated than before. Between her actions, her words, and her countenance, she seemed to be simultaneously terrified, anguished, angry, and hopeless. She did not appear to have any real awareness of her surroundings or of the people with her, yet she cringed when Dumbledore came near.

"Stop!" she shrieked. "Oh, God make it stop, **_please!_**"

Dumbledore drew back in surprise, but he seemed confused. "Can you hear anything, Meli?" he asked.

"Scr—**_Noooo!_**" She buried her head in her arms and did not speak again.

Monty looked up anxiously at Dumbledore, but the all-wise headmaster of Hogwarts was at a total loss. "If it's a seizure, it's unlike any I've ever seen," he murmured, glancing at the python. "I don't understand. I don't understand at all . . ."

There was nothing either of them could do for Meli except to stay with her and wait it out. Monty had a skewed sense of time anyway, but here he entirely lost track. Hours seemed to crawl by while Meli's terror fit went on, until at last she subsided and went limp.

Dumbledore gently pulled Meli out of her hiding place, then levitated her to a chair. Monty drew himself up and found that, though her cheeks were tear-stained, she looked peaceful and innocent—and terribly confused.

She proved to be as uninformative now, though, as she had been during her fit. She could not account for it at all and knew only that she had been suddenly seized by a wave of extreme terror, grief, and futile anger.

"I heard something like screams," she told Dumbledore, furrowing her brow. "But they weren't like what I hear during a seizure. He wasn't in pain—not physical pain anyway. And he wasn't screaming out loud." She shook her head. "It was . . . I don't know . . . it was a soul's scream, I think—I can't explain it any better than that."

Dumbledore nodded grimly. "Then perhaps Voldemort had found a way to torture the soul using magic," he said thoughtfully. "It may well be that this was a seizure after all."

Meli shuddered. "In that case, I prefer the other kind. What sort of spell could he possibly have used to do that?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "I don't know."

Meli entered the following day feeling completely and utterly out of step with reality, and the rest of the world, seemingly taking its cue from her, was off-kilter, as well. Professor McGonagall entered a classroom ready to lecture her second year Ravenclaw Transfiguration students, only to find that Flitwick was there, lecturing his sixth year Slytherin Charms students. It was a peculiar thing to have happen, especially given that McGonagall had been teaching at Hogwarts for decades and had never before managed to misplace her own classroom.

During an in-class counter-jinx practice session, two of Meli's most graceful students turned suddenly into klutzes, and her fourth year Hufflepuffs had a graphic demonstration of what happens when a bat-bogey counter-jinx hits a loaded bookshelf not under the effects of a bat-bogey jinx. The students responsible (not that they could truly be considered _responsible_ for what was obviously a disastrous accident, and Meli was the first to admit it) were apologetic; Meli was just confused.

And, topping off the whole, Zarekael was behaving strangely—at least, Meli assumed he was behaving strangely; he wasn't actually around for her to observe him. Any time he caught sight of her, he abruptly disappeared by ducking into an alcove, slipping through a doorway, or stepping around a corner. This behavior bothered her more than any of the day's other oddities, not because she thought Zarekael incapable of being off-step, but because he always, without fail, had a _reason_ for being off-step, and that was what troubled her. If Zarekael took pains to avoid someone, to the extent that the mere sight of that person was enough to make him flee, it meant that he had a problem with that person.

In other words, he had a problem with Meli.

_He was fine at dinner last night,_ she reflected. _And I didn't see him after that. What could I have possibly done between then and now?_

The only event that came to mind was her panic attack, or seizure, or whatever it had been, but that it could somehow have offended Zarekael was ludicrous. He could only know about it if Dumbledore had said something—and why would he have done that?

If there was one thing that Meli couldn't stand, it was an unresolved interpersonal problem, and when faced with such problems, her immediate impulse was to resolve it as soon as possible. Unfortunately, in this particular case she encountered a fundamental problem, namely that the problem could not be solved without her talking to Zarekael, and if she couldn't see him for more than a split-second at a time, she most certainly couldn't talk to him. The only other course she could think of was to talk with someone who might know why Zarekael was avoiding her, and that meant tracking down Snape.

Snape was not as elusive as Zarekael, but he did seem unusually uptight. He heard Meli out in stone-faced silence, and when he spoke to reassure her, his tone was grim.

"It's nothing you've done, Meli," he told her quietly. "Zarekael's avoiding everyone today, not just you."

"Even you?" she asked.

Snape closed his eyes and nodded once. "Even me," he affirmed. "Perhaps especially me."

Meli furrowed her brow. _But he was _fine_ yesterday!_ she protested silently. Aloud, she simply inquired, "Why?"

Zarekael's father hesitated. He obviously wanted to tell her all that he knew, but she sensed also that it was not his truth to tell. At the same time, though, he was as unwilling to lie to her as she would be to lie to him.

At last Snape met her eye, and while his gaze was guarded, she saw that it was honest. "We all have our fears, our deep hurts, and our consuming shames, Meli," he replied. "When any of those comes to light, our first instinct is to hide from others, even if they know nothing about it."

And that, Meli suspected, was the most she would learn just now, and it was quite enough. Even what Snape had told her was probably too much, for she knew just enough now to pity Zarekael. Whatever had happened the previous night, he had been humiliated and wounded; who could fault him for isolating himself in the wake of such an experience?

She thought again of the mouse Robert Burns had turned up with his plow. Who, indeed, could blame the mouse for running from every plow after being so badly hurt by one?

She couldn't fault him . . . but she hoped fervently that Zarekael would face down whatever demons had come to light and emerge from his self-imposed isolation. She hadn't lost him as a friend to the Goldens; she didn't want to lose him to himself now.

PRESENT: EARLY MAY

Things went quietly for about a fortnight; it seemed that the students had been shocked into meekness by Fudge's assassination and the odd behavior of several of the teachers afterward. Even Malfoy was more or less keeping his nose clean . . . until the quidditch game.

Meli had never been a particularly huge fan of quidditch. She knew how to play, and she knew the rules well enough that she could, if called upon, referee, but in terms of living and dying by match outcomes, she had better things to do with her time. She had, in her youth, followed scores in the professional leagues, but that had been more for the sake of conversation than anything else; she would never have driven six days to see a quidditch game in Pittsburgh, for example.

Hogwarts' teachers were encouraged to attend as many quidditch games as possible during the school term, though, so Meli, who had seen perhaps half a dozen games in seven years as a student, now found herself going to twice that number in a single year. Rain or shine, she sat outside in the objectionable fresh air, providing moral support for (and receiving it from) Snape and Zarekael. She once reflected, with a smirk, that they must have looked a thoroughly miserable threesome—blinking in the sun, breathing in air that was thoroughly free of dankness, and layering clothing and sunscreen in all modes of weather to keep from tanning, freckling, or burning.

A month and a half before the beginning of the summer holiday, the long-anticipated Gryffindor-Slytherin match took place. Theirs was, understandably, the fiercest rivalry, with the result that their games tended to be the most exciting, interesting, and (occasionally) violent. That in itself would have been inducement enough for an ardent hockey fan like Meli to attend, but the game looked to be even more interesting because Zarekael had been chosen to referee it. The choice had been protested by a number of Gryffindors until they noticed that no one in Slytherin was rejoicing; Zarekael, unlike Snape, was known to be painfully just, even to the detriment of his own House.

So it was that a sunny Saturday morning in early May found Meli blinking, overheating, paranoid about freckles—and smiling in anticipation. Snape, who sat beside her, seemed a bit more than usually on-edge, and he did not share her love for her athletic violence—particularly when it might fall to him to punish the entertaining parties later.

Zarekael was likewise uncomfortable, and Meli suspected that there was more to his discomfiture than the prospect of riding his broomstick (an activity he did not at all relish). He had only just begun to emerge from his isolation, so she couldn't be sure, but she didn't have to wait long to find confirmation of her suspicions.

A few minutes later, when the teams came out and took their positions, she saw that the two Seekers hovered across from one another, devoting more attention to glaring at each other than to the snitch when it was released. The Potter-Malfoy rivalry had grown stiffer all year, and now the two would face off in a game in which anything could happen.

_No,_ she thought, her smile fading, _I wouldn't want to referee this one, either. Poor Ruthvencairn!_

The quaffle was released, and the pandemonium began. Someone from Gryffindor caught it, then zipped off, a red blur suddenly surrounded by green. Harry and Malfoy retreated from the hornets' nest of activity to watch for the snitch, leaving Weasley hovering by himself in front of Gryffindor's goal rings.

Zarekael, too, hung back from the action and a little higher, benefiting from the clearer view it offered him. He hovered near the center of the pitch, his back to Malfoy, Harry, and Ron . . .

A tiny gold flash zipped past. Harry, seeing it, took off after it . . . then suddenly stopped dead in the air, a thoroughly bewildered look on his face. His features opened up in utter astonishment as he seemed suddenly to realize that he was over a hundred feet up in the air.

Meli's eyes had already tracked to Malfoy, who sat at ease atop his broomstick, his wand still out and a self-satisfied smile on his face. She reached for her own wand, then stopped when Snape drew his, recognizing a potential Death Eater in-fight when she saw one.

"_Expeliarmus!_" Snape said aloud, and Malfoy nearly fell from his broomstick as his wand was ripped from his hand. Snape intercepted it, but he had no time to do or say anything further.

"_Harry!"_ Ron screamed, and Meli whipped around in time to see the Keeper head downward at a steep angle. Harry had toppled from his broomstick, in all likelihood thanks to a bludger that was now rocketing away.

Zarekael had not been idle; he, too, was speeding towards the ground to catch Harry. It was fortunate that he did, for there was no way Ron could have made it in time. Zarekael leveled off just in time to intercept Gryffindor's fallen Seeker, whom he lowered the rest of the way to the grass before calling a halt to the game.

Fortunately for Draco Malfoy, Harry survived and came away more or less unscathed. Had the outcome been otherwise, expulsion would have been the least of his worries; there was no doubt in anyone's mind that Ron would have killed him before he could be arrested for murder. What was less widely known was that Ron would have moved far too slowly to have the satisfaction of doing the deed himself. Snape and Zarekael would have beaten him to it, with the full approval of Voldemort and the understanding (if not outright approval) of the Order of the Phoenix. Neither Voldemort nor the two spies could afford for Hogwarts to be under Aurors' scrutiny just then.

Harry's condition was actually less "unscathed" than Dumbledore led the students to believe. As it happened, he had taken the bludger to the head. The resulting injury wasn't the worst Poppy had seen ("At least he's conscious," she sighed. "Oliver Wood was in a coma for a fortnight when a bludger got _him_!"), but it was bad enough that he was confined to the hospital wing for several days while he recovered from a nasty concussion.

Malfoy, meanwhile, was to serve detentions for the rest of the term. His first week was with Snape, who made him thoroughly miserable; his second, with McGonagall, who made him wish he'd stayed with Snape. Meli was supposed to administer his third week of detentions, but a fortnight after the quidditch game, something happened that prevented that from going as planned.


	33. Fallen Heroes

****

Chapter 33: Fallen Heroes

PRESENT: LATE MAY

It did not fall to Meli to reconstruct what happened in the wee hours of the morning that fateful day, and since she was not a direct eyewitness of the earliest events—nor indeed of the major events—she had only a general idea of how the battle for Hogwarts began. Others would learn that the Death Eaters had advanced from the forest and from the mountains behind the castle on foot, and over the lake on broomstick, just as the sun was beginning to show itself above the horizon.

Voldemort made no attempt at stealth this time. An hour before his forces entered the castle, alarms roused the faculty and students and alerted the Ministry—for all the good the latter would do. The Death Eaters would be upon them before more than a few Aurors could get there at such an unseemly hour.

Meli, who had known that something major was coming, had been sleeping lightly for months and had been all but insomniac since Fudge's assassination. The alarms did not so much wake her as give her an excuse to roll out of bed. Her Skulker costume (or ninja suit, as Crim had dubbed it) was within easy reach, and in under two minutes from the alarm, she was clad and ready to go. She passed into the main room to find Monty likewise alert and ready for battle.

"Good luck, Meli," he hissed, his eyes shining with excitement and anticipation.

"Same to you, my friend," she replied, her voice a touch muffled by her mask. "And be careful."

He drew himself up and bowed, then slid out the door beside her. At the near end of the corridor, they parted ways, Meli heading toward the more populated areas of the castle and Monty going silently deeper into the dungeons. The python, always ready for adventure and harboring a particular dislike for Death Eaters, had volunteered to act as a rear guard in the dungeons. Snape had been busy there, setting up all manner of elaborate death traps should a last-ditch defense be necessary, but there were ways into the dungeons that had to be watched, and Dumbledore had allowed Monty the chance to contribute as he could.

Meli's own job was far different from anyone else's. Her history as a Skulker had given her a knowledge of the castle's layout and network of secret passages unequaled by any of the other teachers, except for Dumbledore and possibly Snape, who would both be otherwise occupied. This made her valuable in several crucial ways.

First, it would enable her to move around the castle undetected, which would further enable her to wreak havoc against the invaders by slipping in behind their advance lines. A castle breach was imminent—Dumbledore had never fooled himself on that account—and a hit-and-fade saboteur would help to buy the defenders some time, as well as killing or wounding a number of the enemy.

Secondly, Voldemort would probably be sending in a team to kidnap Harry Potter while the defenders were otherwise occupied, and it was a good bet that he would send Dirk Pierce with said team. While Pierce's knowledge of the castle _might_ not be as thorough as Meli's (something on which she wasn't placing any bets), it was still thorough enough to make him a danger. Most of the passages he would need to use had been blocked, booby-trapped, or placed under guard, but he was resourceful, and not every possible path could be closed—especially since Meli would need to use the passages, as well. One of her secondary objectives was to neutralize Pierce, something only a shadow-skulker who knew him would be able to pull off.

And lastly, Dumbledore had given her carte blanche for any kind of mayhem she could perpetrate to confuse, delay, or lead to the capture of the enemy. It was akin to the sabotage, but (as she thought of it) more explosive and, consequently, more fun. Toward this end, she amused herself by setting up tripwires, sample vials of Neville Longbottom's Potions disasters, dung-bomb launchers, and (on temporary loan from Hagrid) hunting traps, among other nasty little things.

She had time for this work only because she kept the equipment prepped and ready to go. Now that that work was completed, though, she had just enough time to fade into the shadows and slink away. Perhaps an hour and a half had passed since the initial alarm, and the teachers and Aurors defending the grounds would be falling back soon. The Death Eaters were coming, and not necessarily through the main gate.

A small intrusion team would be Voldemort's primary hope. The larger invading force would have plenty to do destroying the castle and killing or capturing its defenders, but no one doubted for a moment that the ultimate objective, dead or alive, was Harry Potter. So while everyone was tied up with the main army, Pierce and his group would come in through a side door and look for a way into Gryffindor. Meli had thoroughly booby-trapped the main floor side entrances, but that would only annoy, not stop, the commandos.

There was a shriek from the direction of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, and Meli smiled beneath her mask. _They really ought to have known better than to come in there,_ she thought, gliding back that way. _That's my personal domain; of _course_ the traps will be worse there!_ It wasn't that her personal domain was so valuable as to be more protected, but rather that a Defense Against the Dark Arts room just naturally contained nastier items and creatures that could be readily adapted into traps. To judge by the tone and frequency of the shrieks before they were abruptly cut off, one or more of the invaders had encountered the red cap she'd brought in for a demonstration in her third-year classes.

That there had been more than one shriek indicated that at least one of the intruders was a novice. That the shrieks had been so abruptly halted indicated that at least one of them was not.

By the time she reached her own classroom, the four Death Eaters had made it through her welcome gauntlet. They were, as she'd expected, irritated but undeterred. The group was smaller than she'd thought it would be, and she wondered if the intrusion team might have split up before she arrived. The corridor turned in an L-junction nearby, and the rest of the Death Eaters could be just around the corner. She could see little point in listening for them, but she did it anyway.

There was, of course, no noise from the hypothetical second group, and the group she did know about was moving steadily away. Knowing that hesitation could carry a high cost, she quickly ducked into her classroom and grabbed a noisemaker, then crept to the corner of the L-junction and set it off, accompanied by a blindly tossed dung bomb. It would not deter the intruders anymore than the red cap had done, but it might delay them—if they even existed. That much done, she slipped back down the corridor to follow the visible group.

The Death Eaters were far ahead of her by now. She had spent a great deal of time on the hypothetical group around the corner, and this group had not been moving slowly in the meantime. She ate up some of the distance, but then one of them stopped and pointed to his right.

_Hello, Pierce,_ Meli thought, smiling thinly. Not even the Weasleys knew about that particular passage. The four Death Eaters lined up single-file, then Pierce tapped at the stones beside a tapestry. Meli did not catch up to them just yet, but she slipped into the passage just before the entry closed in behind them.

"How long will this take?" one of the Death Eaters whispered hoarsely.

"Three more passages to Gryffindor," Pierce replied. "Now shut up."

There were two possible routes he could have in mind, then, Meli reflected. One was warded so thoroughly that they'd make it through only as mincemeat or extra-crispy bacon; she'd seen to that herself. The other, however, consisted of two passages she'd had to keep open for strategical purposes, and the third was warded less securely than the others because it was close enough to a dormitory that an enterprising student might try to use it.

Fortunately, she had some time to plan while in the passageway. She knew of no way to incapacitate all four without alerting at least one to her presence. It would be ideal to take out only Pierce, then pick off the others as they wandered without a guide, but there were three Death Eaters between her and him at the moment, so that course was impracticable—for the present. Any action she took would have to wait until they emerged in the corridor beyond.

It took ten minutes to go through the passage, with only the sound of muffled whimpering to relieve the ears for most of it. Perhaps halfway through, there was some scuffling, followed by one of the Death Eaters (the one Pierce had told to shut up) whining, "Ow!"

"Quit your moaning," a surly voice ordered. "It serves you right for stepping on a red cap. Now stop whining!"

The whimpering obligingly stopped, and the feel of the air shifted from purposeful to sullen.

_Voldemort had to have a good reason for sending in a rookie,_ Meli thought. _I wonder what it might be; he certainly isn't proving his worth at the moment._

At last the passage ended, and they stepped into a sunny, deserted corridor. Meli immediately took to the shadows, but neither Pierce nor his following did more than stay close to one wall. They were confident of being undetected—

_Or they're a decoy!_

Meli's thoughts flew once more to the hypothetical second group, and she wondered sickeningly if she had made a mistake in not checking to be certain. _But if they'd been there—if they existed—would you have followed them?_

She gritted her teeth. Who knew? There was no sense in second-guessing herself, though; it was too late to unmake the decision.

Pierce led his group around a corner, and she felt a cold sense of satisfaction; he was taking them down the death-trapped route. Whether or not they were decoys, they would soon cease to be her problem.

But then came something unexpected and _quite_ unwelcome. A breathless Death Eater came dashing up to Pierce's group, his voice panicked and his robes in disarray.

"We need reinforcements in the dungeons!" he gasped to Pierce. "The teachers have taken Potter down there!"

"What about the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?" Pierce demanded. "Is she down there, too?"

"Of course she is!" the messenger snapped. "Where else do you think she'd be?"

All but Pierce and Meli followed the messenger as he dashed back toward the dungeons. Pierce, however, turned down another corridor and headed for a very different passage than the one that might have killed him. Meli, seeing his intent, followed. She did not see that the limping novice had doubled back and was now following Pierce, and therefore her, at a distance.

As she had expected, Pierce had doubled back to a marble statue that stood sentry between two suits of armor. This particular statue had escaped the notice even of Filch and, she suspected, the Weasley twins, but the Skulkers had discovered it, quite by accident, as first years.

She watched as Pierce first looked this way and that, then tapped the stone figure's nose. The statue slid silently aside, revealing a passage into which he slipped, Meli almost immediately behind him. The entrance closed again, leaving them in inky blackness until Pierce illuminated his wand. He did not look back but instead moved rapidly forward and downward, Meli following just closely enough to benefit from his light.

_I don't think I've ever in my life been so collected,_ she thought calmly. _Perhaps I'm about to die._

As ridiculous as that off-handed thought was, it didn't bother her enough to shake it off. She filed it away for future reference and continued her silent pursuit, knowing that much, possibly everything, depended upon it. This particular passage was inconveniently long and roundabout for people in a hurry to go from place to place, but it had served the Skulkers well as an otherwise unknown route to the dungeons. Crim and Sharpie, especially, had used it a great deal.

Meli herself had entirely forgotten about it and had therefore not thought to tell Dumbledore or Snape of its existence. As a result, the anti-intruder defenses in the dungeons probably had in them a flaw that would allow someone in through the secret passage. Knowing as she did the probable location of the Death Eaters' quarry based upon the messenger's route of retreat, Meli surmised that Pierce would also have the advantage of coming in behind Harry and his screen of protectors. No warning was yet possible, so it was entirely up to her to stop Pierce before he could reach Harry.

Well, to her and Monty, she amended. The python would be patrolling near the point at which she and Pierce would be entering the dungeons, and she hoped that his memory proved to be a little better than hers.

She dimly remembered that the passage could be traversed in twenty minutes if taken at a run, but Pierce was moving only at a light jog, doubtless hoping to conserve most of his energy for a fight at the end. She estimated, therefore, that they traveled in the darkness for half an hour or so before reaching the exit. She allowed Pierce to leave and step a few paces down the outside corridor, then counted off one more minute before pushing aside the portrait covering the door. Its occupant (a perpetually drunken sailor who had a bad habit of wolf-whistling at anyone who passed him) was, mercifully, elsewhere, and Pierce, as she had hoped, had already rounded a bend in the corridor beyond. She moved rapidly, but silently, after him.

She caught sight of him a minute or so later and shadowed him along his route. They were coming closer to guarded corridors now, increasing her chance of being able to warn others and head him off. Her goal at this point was to stop and capture him, for which she would need a bit of help.

As they got deeper into the dungeons, however, and crossed the first corridor that was supposed to be guarded, the guard was gone, either further up that corridor or even further into the dungeons as reinforcement for Dumbledore's group.

Ahead of her, Pierce turned down another corridor. Meli had just picked up her pace when she heard a loud reptilian hiss, followed by Pierce swearing in surprise. She, too, rounded the corner just in time to see Monty lunge furiously at the Death Eater a second time. Pierce's crumpled mask, doubtless the victim of the python's first lunge, lay across the corridor where Monty had whipped it with his tail.

Instead of making contact again, however, Monty raised himself up, his head and body enlarging and rapidly transforming. The snake disappeared entirely, replaced by an enraged man in blue robes who brandished a wand.

"I knew you'd come, Pierce, and now it's time for an accounting," he growled, but he never again spoke more.

Before Meli could react, Pierce shouted, "_Sangrio venaruptura!_"

The animagus dropped almost instantly, red blotches appearing on all of his exposed skin as every vein and artery simultaneously ruptured.

Meli ripped off her own mask and leapt around the corner, catching Pierce once more by surprise. Before he could make a move against her, she had snatched his wand and broken it over her knee, then done the same with his right arm. She whirled away from him, wand out, as he howled in pain, and then she uttered a spell she had never thought she'd use in a life-and-death duel: "_Tu quoque!_"

There was a strange crackling in the air, and she felt an actual shift in power levels, almost as if someone was drawing magic away from its designated place. That someone had an unstable hold, however, and the crackling exploded in a _surge_ of power that rushed through the corridor with the physical force of a wind, a large gust of which was caught by and channeled through Meli's wand, which was aimed at the man who had once been Sharpie.

She watched now, horrified and mesmerized, as Pierce, too, fell, his own face and hands showing the blotches of annihilated veins. The spell shouldn't have worked that well—it wasn't powerful enough to duplicate a deadly curse . . . but somehow it had. Pierce should only have been badly hurt, but instead he died with eyes wide open in shock, staring up at her whom he had used to call friend.

There was no victory here, no sense of triumph or accomplishment. She turned to the man who had hidden as Monty for so long, only to blow it in a final, heroic Gryffindor moment. She closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest, covering his face with the sleeves of his robes, then slowly stood again to leave.

Only as she turned did she see the Death Eater that had followed her in. She saw his wand, heard his voice form words, saw a flash of brilliant green light—

And she was falling ponderously to the floor, far too slowly for it to be real. She thought somehow that she might have ducked and tumbled off-balance, but there was a crackling in the air that betrayed the release of a huge amount of power.

_Instant death takes longer than I thought,_ she reflected dryly. _And isn't it ironic that I made the same mistake Pierce did . . . and that I'm also dying for it._

And then she hit the stone.

Anthony Flint smiled in self-satisfaction as he limped forward to survey his kill. The stupid little witch had never thought to look behind her, and, brave as she was, her idiocy had now been justly rewarded. He turned her over with his toe, eager to see the face of the Auror he'd single-handedly brought down.

Cold horror washed over him as the eerily smiling face came to light. Well she might smile; with her own foolishness, the last of the Skulkers had sealed his doom. He had managed to kill the only enemy at Hogwarts whose life was sacred to Voldemort. Flint stumbled numbly away, then, as it sank in fully what he'd done, he took to his heels and fled toward the enemy's position.

Better to die by an Auror's hands than to be tortured to death—or worse, allowed to live under a bane—by Voldemort's.


	34. En Memoriam

****

Chapter 34: En Memoriam

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story concerns Meli; therefore, what happened further in the dungeons is not covered here. If you are dying of curiosity, the only comfort I have to offer you is this: It will be discussed in some detail in Part II of my story, and Snarky Sneak will someday post her story, which contains a full description of the battle from Zarekael's point of view. Suffice it to say for now that it ended suddenly and spectacularly, and with lots of green fire—as every really cool battle (and Jack o' Lantern) should do.

After the battle's sudden, spectacular conclusion, the Aurors first secured Harry, then spread throughout the dungeons in search of stragglers and other Death Eaters that might have lingered. That was how the bodies of the last three Skulkers were found.

By luck or by a dark Divine design, Andrea Underhill and Kevin Lane were members of the party that stumbled over the remains of the skirmish. It was Andrea who first saw them, and what initially caught her eye was the face of her friend. Meli had fallen forward over one of the other two bodies, then she had been rolled over in such a way that her head was propped up on the second body. Her eyes were closed—not in pain, Andrea thought, but in savoring of triumph. More than that, her lips were forever parted in one of the maddest grins Andrea had encountered outside the realms of Lewis Carroll.

The Aurors had thoroughly investigated the scene, reconstructing events and forcing the two intact wands to show their previous spells. As they reassembled the scenario, Andrea could actually see Meli walking through those very actions.

One of the British Aurors, a whip of a woman who answered to the name Scatcherd, haughtily took command of the group and detailed aloud what had taken place, her tone and mannerisms making it clear that all present—the Americans and the dead, especially—should be awed at her superior intellect. Andrea, whose patience was already worn down to nothing, interjected as she pleased, determined to deny the other woman her airs.

"Somehow," Scatcherd lectured, "one of the Death Eaters found a way in behind our line—"

"His name was Dirk Pierce," Andrea informed her coldly. "And given that he was a prankster in his time as a student here, he probably used a little-known passageway that the defenders didn't seal."

Scatcherd glared at her, then resumed as if nothing had been said. "Ebony must have followed him with the intent of stopping him. Another, unidentified wizard—"

"Whom I believe you'll eventually identify as Collum Fell," Andrea broke in. It had been a nasty shock, uncovering that face and seeing him lying there dead, when by rights he should have been alive and well and enjoying an exile in Jamaica or some equally inclement place.

"—was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Pierce killed him with the Venarupturum. The other wizard hadn't made any successful strike against him, though he attempted a stupefication, as we know from his wand."

"Pierce's wand is entirely useless, seeing as how it's broken," Andrea interrupted, more for the sake of being contrary than because there was something to contradict. "Please enlighten us: how do you know the Venarupturum came from Pierce and not from someone else present?"

Scatcherd ignored her. "Then Ebony appeared on the scene and managed to break both Pierce's arm and his wand. Or perhaps this other wizard broke his arm . . ."

"Knowing Meli Ebony's temper and efficiency, I doubt it," Andrea remarked darkly.

"And we know that Pierce used the Venarupturum because Ebony's wand was last used to cast a Tu Quoque spell at him. It's not a particularly powerful spell, generally not powerful enough to duplicate a deadly curse, but"—Scatcherd tossed a superior smile at Andrea—"knowing Ebony's temper and efficiency, she was probably able to summon up the strength of will to make up the difference."

"Oh, and aren't you just the smartest little bag of hot air that ever walked the face of the earth?" Andrea muttered, not loud enough for anyone but Kevin to hear. He smiled, but seemed puzzled.

"I've never come across a Tu Quoque," he said under his breath. "Is this a British spell I don't know about?"

Andrea shook her head. "It's a duelist's gutter-tactic spell, Kevin—no reason civilized people _should_ know about it," she replied. "Meli stumbled over it somewhere and told me about it. It's a last-ditch defensive hex. Say you're in a duel, and someone hits you with Jelly-Legs." She smirked half-heartedly. "To buy yourself time to recover, you hit your opponent with Tu Quoque. They might have defenses up against a hex coming from _you_ . . . but Tu Quoque basically turns their spell back on them. Or more precisely, it duplicates their previous spell. You can't fully _transfer_ something cast on someone else with a Tu Quoque, but you can make them wish they'd picked a more benevolent hex."

"And where would she have picked up something like that?"

Andrea shrugged. "She probably read an offhand reference to it somewhere, then looked it up and kept it in reserve for a rainy day."

"Well, it didn't save her life," Scatcherd sniffed at her elbow.

Only the truth of the statement kept Andrea from hexing the British Auror.

Scatcherd picked up her lecture where she'd left off a moment earlier. "Of course this unknown wizard—"

"Collum Fell," Andrea corrected.

"—would have been dead. Pierce, if not dead, was dying, and in any case, he couldn't have killed Ebony because his wand was broken and out of reach. We know Ebony didn't turn her wand on herself. Thus, there must have been a fourth party who survived the encounter and left without a trace—"

"Other than the bodies he left behind, of course," Kevin put in.

"That party," Scatcherd said through her teeth, glaring at this new interloper, "must have come in at the end and seen the finish of the face-off between Ebony and Pierce. He or she obviously did not see Ebony's face at the time; that explains why she was rolled over post mortem."

_It also explains why she was killed in the first place,_ Andrea added silently.

"It is a foregone conclusion that the party in question was a Death Eater," Scatcherd finished. "Any speculation as to who it might have been?"

"Maybe the madman who charged us from behind just before Dumbledore's light show?" Kevin suggested sarcastically. "He likely came from this direction. Unless you, in your infinite wisdom, find something better, my money's on him."

Judging by the look on Scatcherd's face, she didn't appreciate such a stunning conclusion coming from an interfering Yank. Andrea smiled sweetly. "But that's exactly what you were going to say anyway, wasn't it, Scatcherd?" she added. "Ravenclaw might be in Britain, but there _are_ Americans who could be Sorted into it, too."

The other Auror glared at her. "For your information," she snapped, "I was nearly Sorted into Gryffindor!"

"Oh." Andrea shrugged. "It shows." She let her tone frost over a bit. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get on with the task at hand."

"You're a cold one, you are," Scatcherd sneered. "Or didn't you notice that there are two good people dead here?"

She found herself suddenly pinned against the wall, Andrea's hands clenched around the lapels of her designer robe; the American was a great deal stronger, and angrier, than she looked.

"I've had about enough of you!" she shouted, the words echoing three and four times down the stone corridor. "_Yes_, I realize what happened here, you miserable Limey toad! Meli Ebony was one of my best friends, bitch, and I have been patient with you, putting up with your bullshit and horse puckey beyond the limits of my patience, for _her_ sake. If there's anyone who doesn't understand what happened here, it's _you_, you pig! She gave her _life_ in defense of what's right, and as an unfortunate side effect, she may have saved yours in the process. So if you can't appreciate that, do everyone here a favor and _shut the fuck up!_"

Kevin had to pry her hands loose and pull her physically away from Scatcherd. The two other Aurors in their group stood silently to the side, wisely choosing not to get involved.

Andrea, for her part, was entirely beside herself. Her analytic cool was gone, replaced with anger at the British in general and Scatcherd in particular, at Dark wizards in general and Voldemort in particular, and at friends who failed in general and herself in particular. She didn't know which she wanted to do more: fall to the floor sobbing, or kill someone very violently—preferably Scatcherd.

She was dimly aware that Kevin was hauling her away and out of the dungeons, but she had no notion of their destination until a harried-looking mediwitch showed her to a bed. She was unsure of the source of chaos she heard, if it was actual pandemonium in the wake of a costly battle, or if it was all in her head, a rushing in her ears. They gave her something to drink, and then she knew nothing except the thick, black realm of dreamless sleep.

No one felt much like celebrating the morning after the battle. The castle still stood, but sections of it were in ruins that even magic would be hard-pressed to repair. The defense measures set up by the teachers had worked as intended, and losses had been minimal . . . but Ebony's death was a hard loss for students and teachers alike. Many had feared her, but nearly all had at least respected her—and that she had died heroically at least partially redeemed her in their eyes.

Even before Dumbledore addressed the student body at breakfast, the story had spread throughout the school of how the Aurors had found Ebony dead and grinning like the Cheshire cat. Only a few confident Slytherins were visibly and vocally unaffected by the news; the Gryffindors, who acknowledged her as one of their own, had practically canonized her overnight. The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws went the more moderate road of declaring her a hero. It was questionable that Meli Ebony would have appreciated any of these reactions; she had done her duty, nothing more. In fact, in killing Pierce, she may well have felt that she had gone too far. And as for the students' opinions, she would simply have snorted and observed that death more often than not is the greatest catalyst for improving the reputation of a disliked person.

Dumbledore stood, and immediately silence blanketed the Great Hall. No one moved even to set down a fork or a cup.

"Good morning," the headmaster said gravely. "By now you are all aware of the events of yesterday and their outcome. With the indispensable help of a number of the Aurors, we repelled an attack by the Death Eaters. They did not achieve their objective, and although we have suffered losses, theirs are more devastating by far." He paused, looking at each of the House tables before continuing. "You are also aware that our losses include Professor Ebony."

He paused again as murmurs and stirring rustled through the hall.

"Professor Ebony was a credit to both her family and to Gryffindor House," Dumbledore said. "She was loyal and courageous, and even in troubled times, she never chose the easy path over the right. She has spent her entire life opposing Lord Voldemort, and in her death, she harmed him more than even he perhaps suspects."

At this juncture, he was interrupted by an eruption of applause and cheers from the Gryffindor table. A few Gryffindors, Hermione, Harry, and the Weasleys among them, held their silence; even Fred and George were uncharacteristically sober.

When the noise tapered off, Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "Yes, there was some victory in Professor Ebony's death," he allowed. "But I believe, were she here, she would admonish you _not_ to cheer. If you seek to honor her memory, pursue justice, not vengeance. Had she lived, she would have done the same."

With that last word, Dumbledore resumed his seat.

Fred turned to George. "So which do you think it is?" he asked in a low voice. "Justice, or vengeance?"

George looked thoughtful, then managed a smile. "He never did anything to us that we'd be getting even for," he replied. "I don't know if it's justice in the classical sense, but it definitely won't be revenge."

"What are you two going on about?" Ron asked glumly.

"Philosophy," George answered airily. He filled his glass with pumpkin juice, then raised it. "To Ebony and the Skulkers."

"Ebony and the Skulkers," Fred echoed, also raising his glass.

Andrea appeared at the Camerons' front gate, then slowly opened it and passed through. The house and yard looked as they always had, but somehow it seemed that the siding had faded to gray and the lawn to a dismal olive drab. Butch, Daniel's ordinarily hyperactive puppy, was oddly reserved; he barked once at Andrea's approach, then walked lethargically over to a tree, circled three times, and dropped, asleep before he hit the ground. In short, everything seemed to have picked up on the Auror's mood.

Scott's smile when he answered the door was a badly needed ray of sunshine, and Andrea was sorry to see it go as soon as he perceived that something was amiss. He let her in and showed her to the living room, where Daniel played Nintendo 64 with a friend and Scotty was engaged in a rousing game of wizard's chess with his grandmother. Andrea smiled in spite of herself at the strange juxtaposition of magical and Muggle in the same room.

"Has something happened?" Scott asked, drawing all eyes in the room to himself and the Auror.

Andrea glanced at Daniel's friend, recognized him as her second cousin once removed, and only then nodded. "I have some news that I'd like to repeat only once," she told him, and she could not even recognize her own voice beneath the trembling.

The neighbor boy stood. "I'll be across the street if you need me," he said in a low voice, then made a discreet exit.

Daniel had left silently, and now he returned, his mother and grandfather with him. Less than five minutes later, the Fells arrived, summoned either by Daniel's friend or by a phone call from one of the Camerons. Andrea smiled gratefully, but it was difficult to maintain it beyond a few seconds.

Everyone still standing instinctively and mechanically sat, except for Andrea. If she sat down, she feared she might not have the strength to get up again.

"I can't stay long," she said haltingly. "I'm needed elsewhere right away, but I begged for a few hours to come here." She swallowed. "I've just come from Hogwarts." They all tensed, even before she'd gotten anywhere near the point. For an Auror—especially an American Auror—to have been at Hogwarts, something big must have happened.

She took a deep breath. "There was a major raid at the school," she continued, with difficulty. "They had enough advance warning to call in help and to lay out some plans—that's how I ended up there."

"How's Aunt Meli?" Scotty burst out, worry and impatience chasing each other across his face. "Is she hurt?"

Andrea clenched her teeth until she could be sure no sound of tears would escape. At last she was able to continue. "Meli was doing reconnaissance. No one knows exactly what happened, but somehow a Death Eater slipped in behind the defensive lines. Meli followed and stopped him . . . she had to kill him to do it, and he'd already killed someone else." She broke off before her voice could shake itself apart, then met the eyes of Myrddin and Alexandra.

When dealing with such perceptive people, there could have been no greater giveaway than that look. Myrddin set his jaw, and Alexandra went pale, then whispered through an evident lump in her throat, "Was it . . . Collum?"

Andrea swallowed hard and nodded once. "I'm so sorry," she told them haltingly. "I wish—" She broke off, unable to fit everything she thought and felt into such inadequate containers as words. If she had found Pierce before this, she could have saved Collum, but instead she had failed them, leaving them with only Donald the Hufflepuff, who would not acknowledge them anyway. If she had found Pierce in time, Meli wouldn't have had to follow him down to the dungeons; she wouldn't have been followed herself, and she, too, would still be alive—

That thought recalled her; she hadn't yet told them everything.

"Another Death Eater had followed her down," she continued, her voice choked and her words halting. "It was very quick—she didn't feel any pain." She couldn't bring herself to tell them that Collum had, or that Meli had died smiling.

The news hit them like a bomb blast. They all fell back under its shock wave, the same stunned look repeated on all eight faces. Meli the Indestructible, Meli the Protector—Meli, who was under Voldemort's personal protection.

Meli, who was just too smart to get edged into a trap and killed, had done precisely that.

"She's . . . dead?" Scott whispered.

Andrea nodded, her own face contorting with grief. "She and Collum both died heroes," she said. "And Meli's killer died shortly afterward when he charged a group of Aurors." She cleared her throat and changed the subject. "She left a letter with Dumbledore, to be read in the event of her death. In it, she asked that a couple of things be taken from her apartment and brought to you."

She opened the bag that she carried with her, then closed the distance between herself and the Camerons. To Mrs. Cameron she handed a ring—Andrew's ring, immediately recognized by everyone present. The older woman accepted it with a shaking hand. To Mr. Cameron Andrea gave a terra cotta pot with seven forget-me-nots growing in it and a sealed envelope. The letter Meli had left with Dumbledore went to Scott.

"Professor Dumbledore thought you should read this for yourselves," she said.

To the Fells went a small green journal, in which Meli had carefully copied down every single butchered song re-write the Skulkers had ever perpetrated and performed. Alexandra accepted the volume with tear-brushed eyes; Myrddin mustered a smile for her, though it quickly faded.

Andrea forced another smile, then saw herself out, leaving them to grieve as a family.

Daniel's friend sat on a porch across the street. When he saw her leaving, he dashed across to stand almost toe-to-toe with her.

"Has another hero been made?" he asked, with a solemnity that belied his age.

"Heroes are made every day, Eddie," she answered. "Last night, though, a martyr was made. Two martyrs," she added, reminding herself that Collum, too, was a martyr, though he was less known.

He looked her in the eye, his own gaze possessing a shrewdness that marked him early as a candidate for Auror training should he show any wizarding talent at all. "Give 'em hell, Andrea."

Cold steel returned to her gaze and she knew that her smile was as deadly as a hunting predator's. "I fully intend to," she replied, then stepped to the side and disapparated, intent on doing precisely that.

****

Epilogue

As a tribute to Professor Ebony's memory, Fred and George Weasley, on the eve of their graduation, executed their best-planned and most sensational prank of all time. They captured Draco Malfoy, stripped him down to his smiley-face boxers, and tied him to one of the columns near the Great Hall, covering his mouth with duct tape to keep him from summoning Filch. To this they added the final touch of a sign, which read: "MALFOY IS AN UGLY GIT. LONG LIVE THE SKULKERS!"

The following morning, the rumor started that the ghosts of the Skulkers now haunted Hogwarts. Fred and George were too elated at being mistaken for the legendary pranksters to take offense at not receiving due credit for the stunt.

Unbeknownst to the twins, their nocturnal activities had been observed by Professor Severus Snape and by another person not yet important to this tale. The Potions master, perhaps giving into an uncharacteristic nostalgia, did not interfere, and instead silently added fifty points to Gryffindor's score. Since this action led to a tie for the House Cup between Gryffindor and Slytherin Houses, it was also attributed to the Skulkers' ghosts, a misconception which Snape made no effort to refute—and neither did that other, not-yet-important person, who knew better than anyone the facts of the matter.

****

The story continues in "A Dream Within a Dream" . . .


End file.
